


My Wings Have No Feathers

by ohnoscarlett



Series: WWII pilots [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Language, M/M, NC-17, Secondary character deaths, Sex, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 14:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnoscarlett/pseuds/ohnoscarlett
Summary: It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world.  Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe.  Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific.  We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman.  Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely.  We blow a lot of shit up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks and love to [](http://kueble.livejournal.com/profile)[kueble](http://kueble.livejournal.com/), [](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/profile)[tuesdaysgone](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/), and [](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/profile)[cloudlessclimes](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/). Beta, cheerleading, all that. I couldn't have done it without you.

**My Wings Have No Feathers**

**Band(s):** PATD, FOB, MCR, AAR, THS, DC, TAI, CS, PP  
 **Pairing(s):** Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, (pre-foursome)  
 **Word Count:** 22,592  
 **Rating/Warnings:** NC-17, sex, language, secondary character deaths, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)

 **Summary:** It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.  
  
There's angst! There's sex! There's death and destruction! Hell, it's War.  
  
And then they go home. (There's angst. There's sex. There's ~~death and destruction~~ more angst.) They learn how to be people again, and in the process, find each other.  
  
Come on, who can resist a man in uniform?  
  
 **Author's Notes:** Many thanks and love to [](http://kueble.livejournal.com/profile)[**kueble**](http://kueble.livejournal.com/) , [](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/profile)[**tuesdaysgone**](http://tuesdaysgone.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/profile)[**cloudlessclimes**](http://cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com/). Beta, cheerleading, all that. I couldn't have done it without you.

**Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content**

[**Fanart:**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12314.html) by [](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/profile)[**maybe_a_sunday**](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Fanmix:**](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=NBZ8P5W6) by [](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/profile)[**onigaminanashi**](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12711.html#cutid1)

  


Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer enlisted together on September 3, 1939. War had begun in Europe, and while the US had been maintaining a strict hands-off policy, Ryan had a feeling about it. And apparently when Ryan had a feeling about something, Brendon and Spencer went with it. They waited until Spencer's birthday. Ryan may have been eighteen, but the others were a year younger. Their lies, combined with a need for recruits and a rather slapdash system, got them in. More lies got them into pilot training.  
  
Nothing could keep the three of them together through all the channels of the United States Army Air Force.  
  
Ryan and Brendon went one way; Spencer went another.  
  
***  
  
The B-17 is a is a four-engine heavy bomber. Ryan and Brendon found themselves manning the controls of their very own flying fortress. The B-17 was touted as a strategic weapon; it was capable of unleashing great destruction, able to defend itself, and could return home despite extensive battle damage. The United States Eighth Air Force was based in England, and the B-17s were primarily employed in the daylight precision strategic bombing campaign against German targets. Bomber Command was actually based at a former girls' school. Really. A girls' school. Brendon thought it was hilarious. Ryan merely wondered what had become of all the girls.  
  
By the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor in '41, Ryan and Brendon had flown dozens of successful sorties with their crew. Their _crew_. Technically Ryan was the pilot, and Brendon was his co-pilot. But they were of equal rank, and friends, so it mattered little who actually sat to the left and who sat to the right. One could say it depended on the weather. It was as good a reason as any.  
  
A B-17 requires a sizeable crew. Ryan's navigator was called Suarez. His bombardier/nose gunner was Pete Wentz, a tiny little guy who could drop an 8,000-pound bomb with the precision of a dime on a chess board. The flight engineer was Patrick Stump, another tiny little guy. Serious. But he could fix anything. The radio operator was Major Chislett. He actually was the highest ranking of them all, and not even USAAF. The English had this weird agreement going on that put a foreign officer on each aircraft. Chislett was theirs. He was Australian, with shaggy blonde curls, a crooked smile, and an accent that none of them could parse out. Luckily that was the job of ground crew, and those guys didn't seem to have a problem with it. He was a nice enough guy, at any rate. There were five gunners; well, six if you counted Wentz's dual role. Each one controlled an M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun. The waist gunners were Hurley and Trohman. The tail gunner was called Carden. William Beckett was in the ball turret, and Andy Mrotek was in the top turret. There was a good reason they called Mrotek "The Butcher". They were all pretty crazy, as a rule, and half deaf. The ground maintenance crew dedicated to their aircraft consisted of Blackinton and Novarro. Nobody did ever figure out if Blackinton was English or not. Truth was relative.

There were eighteen aircraft in Ryan and Brendon's unit stationed at High Wycombe in 1942. Of those, the one hangared immediately to their port side was their favorite. The _Bunny Marie_ and her crew of miscreants became their favorite three days after Ryan and Brendon and their pristine gray beauty touched ground. Ryan returned to the flightline to find Gerard and Frank, the _Bunny Marie_ 's maintenance crew, arguing under his nose gun and splattered with paint. Blackinton and Novarro were nowhere to be seen. And there was a beautiful girl with epically long legs looking down at him from the previously unblemished fuselage.  
  
" _Brendon!_ " Ryan called tremulously. His co-pilot almost immediately trotted into view.  
  
"What?" he asked, with a tilt of the head. It was obvious when he caught sight of their new nose art. His eyes widened and he let out a long, low whistle, then turned to the two artists, still bickering. "Whoa. She's hot, but Ryan is gonna _kill_ you." That got their attention.  
  
"You touched my bird," Ryan drawled. Brendon stood by his side and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to pass for stern and disapproving. Kind of.  
  
"You were lacking," said Gerard. Frank thrust his hands into the pockets of his flightsuit and bounced on his toes enthusiastically, nodding and grinning.  
  
"Well, who is she, then?" Ryan gestured with his chin.  
  
"Just some dancer betty I met in New York City," Gerard replied with a shrug.  
  
"Her name was Betty?" Ryan continued. Brendon chirped, "Like _Betty Grable!_ " and all three of the other men grimaced.  
  
"No," Gerard said decisively. And thus the _Keltie Colleen_ was christened. They were well pleased with her.

***  
  
Spencer found himself in the cockpit seat of a Dauntless. An SBD Dauntless A-24B, a two-man Navy dive-bomber with a wing span just shy of 42 feet. She could pull a max speed of 255 mph with a ceiling of 25,500 feet. She also came equipped with two .50 caliber machine guns of his very own, and another .30 caliber for his gunner, a guy called Brent who also happened to hail from Vegas. Spencer was smitten.  
  
With the _plane_.  
  
He honestly could take or leave the gunner. He knew him, vaguely, from before. For some reason the military thought that a shared history meant that they would work well together. Spencer wasn't so sure about that, but he'd give it a shot.  
  
Spencer found it strange how, of the three of them--him, Ryan, and Brendon-- it had been him who got a fighter. He had pegged Brendon for sure. Ryan definitely had the laconic demeanor suited to long, smooth, high-altitude bombing runs. Brendon was--well, maybe Spencer was a better fit for a fighter after all. Even if it did give them bragging rights in the eternal pissing contest. Spencer's bird may be small, but she was fast.  
  
***  
  
Spencer was a child of the desert. He knew this for a fact. He liked it, even. With that in mind, adjusting to life on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific Ocean took some doing. It was Spencer's wingman who actually helped the most. His name was Jon.  
  
Jon Walker was from Chicago. He had actually been a college student before he decided he would be better put to use in service. ( _I was a terrible student anyway_ , he would insist.) Jon told Spencer how the middle of the ocean was in fact quite similar to the desert. Both were rather uniform in structure, and both were relatively devoid of life. The analogy actually made Spencer feel better. But then, so did Jon himself.  
  
Spencer and Jon became fast friends. Jon's gunner Tom would laugh and say Jon could charm Hitler, Mussolini, _and_ Emperor Hirohito if they gave him the chance. Tom would know. They'd grown up together, so he'd experienced it firsthand. Tom had no room to talk, though. He was so affable it seemed he had befriended their entire squadron and half the ship's crew before they were even out of port. Brent even liked him. Everyone liked Tom.  
  
But Jon jokingly gave Spencer a word of advice.  
  
"Be careful what you drink from, and wash your hands a lot. Tom is a great guy, and I love him like I do my own brothers, but he's kind of a cat."  
  
Spencer offered a blank stare in return.  
  
"He's a skirt magnet? The janey's love him?" Jon added.  
  
Spencer nodded in understanding. More or less.  
  
"He's pretty much always nursing a case of the clap."  
  
Spencer was horrified. Jon thought it was hilarious.  
  
***  
  
Brendon found barracks living perfectly acceptable. He was the youngest of a large family, so the fact that he had a roommate bothered him not at all. The fact that his roommate was Ryan happened to be something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Brendon was glad to have a familiar face. A part of home. And he knew that it soothed Spencer's nerves to know that someone was there to watch out for Ryan. Not that Ryan ever got into any trouble. Ryan was practically a monk. He made Brendon look fairly devilish.

On the other hand... Well. Ryan made Brendon vaguely uncomfortable. It wasn't anything Brendon wanted to dwell over.  
  
It wasn't anything dogmatic. Sure, Brendon was Mormon, and most people didn't really understand the finer points. He didn't make it an issue. He wasn't exactly what anyone would call a shining example of Mormon faith. But Ryan was Catholic. Like, _really_ Catholic and he seemed to be having some trouble reconciling the drive to fulfill his patriotic duty and the actuality of that fulfilment. Ryan would never have made it in the infantry, having to see the faces of the men he killed. Ryan's guilt over the casualties of war that he considered himself responsible for, due to his piloting a bomber, was immense. He seemed to be perpetually counting the beads on his rosary.  
  
Or on his knees, head bent and hands clasped in prayer, asking for forgiveness.  
  
This was how Brendon found him one evening after he had been down the way discussing that week's movie with the rest of their crew. Brendon rounded the corner to find the door to their room ajar. Something made him pause with a hand on the door handle. He could just see Ryan, a dim shape in the candlelight, kneeling on the floor at the side of his bed. His eyes were closed, lips moving silently, and his hands... Ryan's long, elegant hands lay neatly in his lap.  
  
Ryan was _beautiful_.  
  
It was like a kick to the gut. Brendon couldn't breathe as he took in the long, clean line of his neck; how it swept smoothly up to the gentle curve of his skull. He was struck by the sudden need to feel the prickle of regulation-short hair against his palm, to chase the dusting of lashes across sharp cheekbones with his thumbs.  
  
It was horribly blasphemous.  
  
Brendon retreated as silently as he had advanced, casting about frantically for something-- _anything_ \--to supplant the images of Ryan in his head.

  
***  
  
Ryan and Brendon sprawled on the grass between the _Keltie Colleen_ and the _Bunny Marie_. The maintenance crews tended to hang around there, buzzing about for potential and/or imagined problems. And gossip. It was friendly there. It also tended to be the warmest place in the encampment. England was as dull and gray as Vegas was hot and sunny. Ryan and Brendon were perpetually chilly. The warbirds soaked up the meager sunshine, and there, so did Ryan and Brendon.  
  
"It's unfortunate," Brendon said softly, gazing up at the art on their neighboring aircraft.  
  
"What's that?" Ryan asked, perplexed.  
  
"Well, look at her," he gestured lamely. "She's a pretty girl."  
  
"Yeah? What's so unfortunate about that?" Frank popped up from behind landing gear, hands on his hips. Gerard poked his head out from the other side, silent, but scowling. Brendon sputtered.  
  
"Well, she's--she's..." he floundered. Ryan snickered, and Brendon shot him a glance. "Poor girl is called Bunny Marie!"  
  
Frank and Gerard erupted in laughter.

"What's so funny?" demanded Brendon. Frank and Gerard continued to laugh uproariously, leaning on each other and gasping for breath.  
  
"Bunny Marie!" wailed Gerard while Frank cackled. "She's--no," and he heaved a sigh before continuing, scrubbing a hand across his forehead, as if he was pushing aside ghostly hair.  
  
"Is she a real girl?" asked Ryan. Many of the painted beauties were pin-ups, or simply products of the imagination, but some, like their own Keltie Colleen--even though Ryan and Brendon had never met her--were real girls.  
  
"Oh yes, she's real," replied Frank solemnly.  
  
"She's my brother's wife. Alicia," said Gerard. Brendon raised a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
"Isn't that kind of, well..." Brendon didn't really want to say _creepy_.  
  
"My brother is our _pilot_. Mikey?" said Gerard slowly, as if Brendon was a bit dim. Perhaps he was. Ryan just nodded sagely, as if he knew all along. Brendon knew for a fact that he didn't.  
  
"And he just let you paint his wife like that?" Ryan asked.  
  
"His plane, really," replied Gerard shortly. It was Ryan's turn to scowl.  
  
"So if _Kelts_ here is my plane," he paused, looking at Brendon, who nodded in agreement. "Then why didn't I get to pick the girl?" Brendon snorted. He had seen the kind of girls Ryan found attractive back home.  
  
"You took too long," said Frank.  
  
"But I didn't know!" squawked Ryan. Brendon grinned. He liked Bunny Marie. Or Alicia. Whoever. Keltie was definitely more of a pretty version of Ryan's kind of girl. She suited him.  
  
"Don't you like her?" asked Gerard mournfully.  
  
"Oh yes!" Ryan and Brendon chorused enthusiastically. Gerard smiled.  
  
"But why do you call her Bunny Marie?" asked Brendon. Gerard shrugged.  
  
"Mikey didn't want to... He liked the idea of being able to see Alicia every day, but he didn't like the idea of everybody else being able to see her too," he said. Frank leered illustratively. "So we call her Bunny Marie instead, and it's like you're not getting the real Alicia."  
  
"Mikeylogic," Frank said, as if that explained everything.  
  
"Bunny Marie?" prompted Ryan.  
  
"Their cat."  
  
***

 _May 1942. Battle of the Coral Sea_  
  
It had been crazy. Their carrier group encountered a Japanese carrier group and all hell broke loose. They flew in the wrong direction. Then they flew at the wrong altitudes to intercept. It was awful, and it lasted for four days. In the end, Spencer and Brent had somehow taken down possibly eight zeroes, more likely five. Jon and Tom had done the same. _But they just kept coming_.  
  
The Lexington took a torpedo across the bow that last day. Jon actually saw it happen, climbing down from his plane with Tom on his heels. They watched as a plume of water shot up the side of the other ship. She listed, then went down with an explosion that carried to them the faint scent of aviation fuel.  
  
Jon--and then Tom--looked away. There was nothing they could do. Tom turned back to their plane, mumbling something about his goggles. Jon turned and bumped into Spencer, who was struggling with the buckle on his helmet. Jon grasped his arm to turn him out of the glare of the sun, so he could get a better look at the buckle and give Spencer a hand. Over Spencer's shoulder he could see Brent's legs dangling from the cockpit of their plane as he dug underneath his seat for some unseen object.  
  
Jon and Spencer were both knocked unconscious when the bomb struck the Yorktown.  
  
Jon woke in a hospital in Pearl Harbor a week later. He was weak from inaction, stiff, and sore. His head hurt. When he reached up, Jon could feel a rough line of stitches in his scalp. A nurse came in as he sat there, dazed, with a hand in his hair. She smiled sadly, then told him what she knew.  
  
Spencer lay in the bed next to his. He was still unconscious-- _asleep_ ; Jon preferred to think he was just asleep. Like Jon, he had stitches in his head and a good deal of nasty green and yellow bruising on his face, his neck, even his hands. Whatever Jon could see. He had been lucky, though, the nurse had said. The two of them had been hit by a large piece of flying debris--likely a chunk of Spencer's plane, or the flight deck itself--and thrown to the side of the flight deck. It had been Spencer's twisted buckle, the fact that he still had his helmet on, that had saved his life. They had been hit pretty hard. But Jon was going to be fine. Spencer was going to be fine. He just needed a little more down time. They both did.  
  
A total of 66 crewmen had been killed when the bomb crashed through the flight deck of the Yorktown.  
  
 _Brent.  
  
Tom_.  
  
A dozen other pilots and gunners. Their friends. It had hit just as their flight group was coming back in. Planes and men scattered all over the deck, and below.  
  
As for the Yorktown, she was in for an estimated 90 days of repair before she would be seaworthy again. Jon would probably be ready to go by then. Healthy and out of the hospital.  
  
For the time being, however, he just had to wait, and recover.  
  
So he did. He slept a lot. He ate a lot. The nurses kept coming in to check on him, bringing little treats. Sometimes Jon felt like their pet. They were nice girls, but they really didn't seem to get the message that he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to be rude, though, so maybe he wasn't getting his message across very clearly. Jon just wanted to be left alone.  
  
It was rare to be completely alone when one found himself stationed on an aircraft carrier. Jon kind of wanted to take advantage of that. He just wanted to enjoy the silence. He didn't want to see the sympathetic faces of the nurses, or of anyone else from the Yorktown, whether he knew them or not. He didn't want to have to think of Tom.  
  
Sending the letter home to Tom's mother had been bad enough.  
  
So Jon hid in his room. And pretended to sleep until he couldn't stand it anymore. Spencer lay in a bed not more than four feet away from him, so Jon started to watch him. It was not very entertaining, as far as those things go, considering Spencer was still as deeply unconscious as he had been when Jon woke in the hospital. But he did it anyway. Jon liked Spencer plenty.  
  
Spencer and Jon were friends. And as friends, Jon saw it as his duty to ensure that Spencer had quality care. Every time a nurse came in to see Jon, he insisted that she go check on Spencer as well. He held imaginary conversations with him-- _silent_ , mind you, because there was really only so far he was willing to go, and getting locked up as a crazy was not it.  


Finally, Jon started to read. The nurses had a stash of books and let him pick one out. He wasn't much of a reader, but he really didn't have many other options. He chose a book of no consequence. It looked interesting, and he hadn't read it before. Jon wasn't sure it was the same for Spencer, but he took the book anyway. He was sure Spencer wouldn't mind.  
  
Jon read to Spencer at least three times a day. After every meal, Jon felt strong enough to ease out of his bed and lurch the few feet over to Spencer's. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him, and there he would read, softly, so Spencer could hear, but not the nurses, or anyone in the hall.  
  
For three days Jon read to Spencer. Every day after breakfast, lunch, and dinner, often late into the night so that he was stiff from sitting still, perched on the edge as he was. That third day--night, rather--Jon just started to talk, explaining, as if Spencer needed some form of explanation for his behavior. He didn't know why.  
  
"This book came out before I enlisted. In '38. Before you did, too, I guess, but I hadn't read it. I didn't really set much store by reading for pleasure. Had other things to do. But this one... I just--I don't know. It seemed right to read it now. Read it for you. Like, it would be reading by absorption, like Arthur. Learning by absorption, you know?" Jon chuckled softly to himself, scrubbing his hand through his hair and sighing. It was late.  
  
"By being."  
  
Jon's head shot up at the sound. His broken ribs stabbing pain in his side, his heart hammering wildly. Spencer blinked muzzily at him. His voice had sounded so faint and rusty. But it had--Jon had thought he had finally lost his mind. But no, it was Spencer. Awake.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Wart. He's learning by... being," Spencer said slowly, his voice rough, crackly. Jon's eyes flicked to his throat, and it was as bruised and scratched as he sounded. "He's learning... sympathy. Empathy. By being. Being something else."  
  
"Yeah," said Jon. "I guess so." He closed the book and looked down at it for a moment before meeting the eyes of his friend. "I missed you."  
  
Spencer closed his eyes with a sigh.  
  
"I didn't go anywhere, I--" and he hissed in pain. Jon leaped to his feet for fear that he had hurt Spencer somehow, but ended up hunched over and clutching his own middle. Spencer managed a weak snicker. "What a pair we are. Broken."  
  
"Speak for yourself," Jon said, sliding carefully back into his own bed. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I'm _fine_."  
  
"Obviously." Jon snorted. Then groaned. "Uh-huh. Thought so."  
  
They lay in the near darkness for a long time. It seemed like a long time, anyway. Neither of them thought to call for a nurse.  
  
"How long," began Spencer tentatively. "How long was I out?"  
  
"Almost two weeks," Jon told him. He took a deep breath, annoyed with himself when it came out shuddery. "Two weeks," he repeated, softly.  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You?"  
  
"A week, maybe?" Jon shrugged. He didn't know if Spencer could see it in the dim light. Didn't know if it mattered.  
  
"What else?" Spencer demanded suddenly.  
  
"What do you mean?" Jon shot back, worried. He didn't want to--  
  
"Are you ok?" Jon almost laughed. Didn't, luckily. Would've hurt like hell.  
  
"Told you. I'm fine. Bump on the head. Concussion? Some stitches. A couple broken ribs..." he trailed off, half afraid of the questions he knew were coming.  
  
"I think I..." Jon could hear a slight rustling from Spencer's bed. He was taking inventory. "I think I'm ok. Generally. Hurts."  
  
"Well then shut up and go to sleep," Jon teased. He didn't have to see it to know Spencer was scowling at him.  
  
They fell silent again. Spencer took some time determining the extent of his injuries. They were obvious, and likely to present themselves as he tried to move around, testing himself. Jon just wanted the excuse of sleep, to avoid the inevitable conversation. It hurt afresh, with Spencer unknowing.  
  
"Did I get crushed with something? I feel like everything is broken," Spencer whined. It actually made Jon smile to himself. He'd be fine, if he was whining about it already. "I think I have a broken collarbone. That's so gross."  
  
"Why is that so gross? And not, say, the stitches in your head, or your broken fingers?" Jon wondered, sort of cruelly.  
  
"Because! It's all... graty and slidy, all under my skin," Spencer shuddered. Jon thought he was done, but then he continued. "I've had stitches before. And my fingers? Not a big deal," he added matter-of-factly.  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," Spencer added smugly. "I'm not left-handed."  
  
***  
  
The Yorktown was ready to go back to sea on May 30. It was barely a week and a half since Spencer had regained consciousness, and a full two months ahead of schedule. There was no way he was ready to return to duty. Luckily, neither was Jon. They were stuck in the hospital together.  
  
They were, however, stuck in the hospital together.  
  
Spencer had not yet asked Jon about Brent and Tom. And Jon had not volunteered the information. Nor was he going to do so. He wondered periodically if Spencer was avoiding the subject--well, he knew Spencer was avoiding the subject. But for which reason? Did he not want to be reminded of his (of their) loss? Brent had been his friend, as well as his gunner. They had enlisted together, Jon thought, along with a couple other old friends from home. It happened that Brent and Spencer stuck together, as had their friends Ryan and Brendon, so far as Jon had heard. They worked well together, and the military had thought that expedient, somehow. But now Brent was gone, and Spencer was not asking about him. Jon was most definitely not going to bring it up.  
  
"I thought--" Spencer began hesitantly. The moonlight shone through their window, casting shadows. It was late, and Spencer was talking. This was how it seemed to go. Their longest and deepest conversations started in the darkness. "For the longest time I thought they were just in another room. Down the hall or something." Spencer paused and Jon's breath caught in his throat.  
  
Ten days. Ten days Jon had been able to avoid the topic, and now--now he couldn't avoid it. Spencer would know.  
  
"I thought they were hurt bad or something," Spencer continued, voice cracking. "Hurt bad so they couldn't leave their rooms. Or--or you were pissed at some douchebaggery Brent had pulled... Not--"  
  
"They _were_ hurt bad, Spence," Jon said softly. He could hear Spencer's shuddery breaths across the narrow space between their beds. "They were hurt bad. Your plane... Your plane fell through the flight deck when Yorktown took that hit. And mine, I guess mine rolled."  
  
"What happened to them? What happened to Brent and Tom?" Spencer whispered. Jon wondered how he should tell it. Who he should know about first. "You know. Tell me!" Spencer prodded, and yet Jon still wavered. He didn't want to. "Tell me!"  
  
"They found Tom pinned under the wreckage." Jon heard Spencer suck in his breath. "He was dead."  
  
" _Oh, Jon..._ "  
  
"And Brent--Brent didn't make it back to Hawaii. He made it out of the foredeck, but that's about it. He was hurt too bad. Didn't last the day," Jon finished bluntly. He studied his hands in the dim light. He didn't want to look to Spencer, see how he took the news, help him through it. It wasn't fair, but who had been there when Jon woke up? Just some nurse. Not anyone who made a difference, not anyone who mattered to him.  
  
***  
  
It was very quiet in their room for several days. Spencer just lay there in his bed, unmoving. He seemed to sleep a lot, as Jon had when he first regained consciousness. But there were long, uncomfortable stretches of time where Jon knew Spencer was awake, but he just stared silently out the window, or at the wall, or his hands. He never looked to Jon.  
  
Jon wasn't behaving any better, he admitted to himself. He stayed in his own bed, on his side of the room, half-heartedly pretending to read his book.  
  
"Are you even listening to me?" Spencer said, voice clipped. Jon started, shaken.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I asked you if you're ok," Spencer repeated--apparently--exasperation coloring his tone.  
  
"I told you before--"  
  
"I know what you said. I heard you," Spencer cut him off. "Physically, you're fine. I got that. I mean--" Jon held up his hand.  
  
"You're not my mother, Smith. I don't need you inquiring after my wellbeing," Jon said, perhaps more sharply than he had initially intended. Spencer blanched.  
  
"Fuck off, then," Spencer said curtly, turning his face to the windows again. Jon felt chastised. Rightly so.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jon said softly. "It's just... Tom was my friend, you know?" Jon looked down at the book in his hands. When he looked up again, Spencer was eyeing him cautiously. "Like, a real friend. From before the War."  
  
"I know," Spencer replied. "But that doesn't mean I'm not--" Spencer sighed, dragging his uninjured hand over short-cropped hair; carefully avoiding the recent scar, stitches freshly removed. "Just because we haven't been friends since we were kids doesn't mean I don't care about you. I'm your friend too."  
  
Jon raised an eyebrow and kind of half smirked.  
  
"Don't get all emotional on me, Sally."  
  
"Oh, fuck you, asshole." Jon grinned, and Spencer huffed and rolled his eyes. Jon was fine. Or he was going to be fine.  
  
Spencer fidgeted, scratching aimlessly at the scar on his head and trying to shift so he lay a little differently on the bed. He sighed balefully.  
  
"Could you..?" he began with obvious trepidation.  
  
"What? I'm not sticking anything down your cast to scratch, so you can just cross that right off your list," Jon teased. Spencer scowled, wrinkling his nose.  
  
"I'm bored, man. Entertain me." Jon raised an eyebrow again. "Come on! It's not like I can hop up and look for something to do! I have a _broken leg_ , you may recall."  
  
"What, you want me to put on a grass skirt and do the hula?" Jon said with a grin. A slow smile spread across Spencer's face. It made something twist low in Jon's belly. "Because I don't think I'm up for that. Ribs," he reminded Spencer quickly, and he gestured to himself.  
  
"No," Spencer shook his head. He paused, glancing away and biting on his lower lip. Jon wondered, suddenly, what in the world could Spencer want him to do? Jon just sat there staring while Spencer apparently contemplated something... compromising? _No_ , Jon almost snorted in incredulity at that thought. Spencer would never--but then he looked back up at Jon and licked his lips. Jon's breath froze in his lungs and he tried vainly not to gape. "Would you read to me?"  
  
Jon almost laughed in relief. Although why he was relieved, and why he had been worked up... He really didn't want to explore that particular train of thought.  
  
"You want me to _read_ to you?" a little chuckle did work its way out. "What, you got a broken arm too?"  
  
"As a matter of fact! Well, sort of, yeah!" Spencer argued. He shook his head again, fondly, a smile playing at his lips. "This coming from the guy who put me here!"  
  
"Hey!" Jon protested. "I didn't drop a bomb on us!"  
  
"Yeah, but I didn't crush my own self, fatass. I look like pretty much what you'd expect to see when somebody gets slammed between a hard surface and 180 pounds of Chicagoan fuckhead."  
  
"This is your plan to get me to do you a favor? Laying blame? Name calling?" Jon countered. " _I'll give you a hard place_ ," he grumbled.  
  
Spencer laughed brightly and put on his best puppy face. Jon sighed and stood gingerly, snagging the book from the bedside table. He nudged Spencer's foot until he bent his leg and tucked it up under the other, casted one. He eased himself slowly down again. It always seemed harder to sit back down than it did to get up in the first place. That made Jon wonder if he was getting better.  
  
"Where were we?" Jon asked. Spencer shrugged.  
  
"Hell if I know."  
  
"I thought you were listening!" Jon chided, half serious.  
  
""I was!" Spencer replied defensively. "Sort of. I think..." Spencer stared off at nothing. "I could almost hear you. I knew you were reading something, but I couldn't fix on it. And then when I woke up you were getting all philosophical on me or some shit." Spencer grinned.  
  
Jon could feel the bottom of his stomach slowly dropping out. Spencer smiled up at him, and Jon could feel it in his bones. He was fucked. Spencer's smile had been the last thing he had seen before the bomb struck the Yorktown, before they ended up here. Jon associated that smile with sunshine. And now, it was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw at night.  
  
Jon was in love.  
  
"I like it when you read to me," Spencer said softly, biting his lip and glancing away. Jon would have sworn his cheeks were just a touch pinker than they had been a moment ago. "I like the way you sound..."  
  
" _Spencer_..." Jon was cautious, yet optimistic. If he was wrong about this, Spencer would kick his ass, broken leg and all. If not, they could get in _so much_ trouble. And yet... Spencer met Jon's eyes, and the longing there took his breath away. He felt chilly fingers slide and tangle with his, on the bedsheets between Jon's knee, Spencer's hip. Where noone could see who wasn't right on top of them. Spencer squeezed, and smiled again.  
  
"Just read, Jon."  
  
***  
  
Jon and Spencer spent the rest of the summer at Pearl. Aside from the fact that both of them were recovering from various injuries, it wasn't much of a hardship. Pearl was nice.  
  
But they felt sort of... homeless. The Yorktown had gone back to sea without them. Neither Jon nor Spencer knew if they were expected to rendezvous with her at some point, or if they were going to be reassigned. Noone was telling them anything. Actually, they were told that their duty was to recover fully, then they could worry about their assignations. Neither of them had sustained injuries serious enough to be sent home. Of course not. As pilots they were both valuable commodities.  
  
But in June they heard of another battle. Midway. There, the Yorktown took damage again; torpedoes this time. And this time she didn't make it. By the time Jon and Spencer heard the news, the Yorktown lay in 3000 fathoms of water, and her crew were scattered amongst destroyers and minesweepers. Or they were dead.  
  
The cast on Spencer's leg came off in July. Jon was relieved because it meant that Spencer would stop bitching about it. He forgot that it meant that Spencer would want to get up and around again. It meant that Jon and Spencer spent a lot of time slowly walking the halls of the hospital together, Spencer on crutches. Then when he abandoned the crutches, Spencer demanded that Jon accompany him while he wandered the grounds. Jon couldn't really see any need for his presence, but he did it anyway. The activity was good for him. His ribs were still healing, after all.  
  
For the most part, Spencer's forays into the outdoors consisted of making loops around the hospital building. It wasn't particularly exciting, but compared to their weeks trapped inside, it was heavenly. But Spencer pushed himself; Jon could see it when the sweat beading on his forehead seemed to be caused by something other than the Hawaiian climate. Jon kept them to a reasonable pace. The last thing he wanted was to hear bones snapping because Spencer thought he had something to prove.  
  
They stopped frequently on their little outings. Ostensibly it was for one or the other of them to point out some unusual wildlife--Jon was particularly fond of birds and always pointed them out, especially the gray and red ones that looked like cardinals--or activity; kids surfing, or nurses smoking and gossiping. But really it was Jon's ploy to keep Spencer from overtaxing himself. They liked to stop at a cluster of palm trees near the south side of the hospital. It was shady there, and relatively cool with the sea breeze. They would sit there, looking out across the grass to the ocean, and talk. Or not. It was quiet, and noone ever bothered them there. That was the real draw.  
  
"What do you think is going to happen to us?" Spencer asked idly. He sat sprawled on the ground, in the manner which he argued he found most comfortable now that his leg had been broken, spread out and taking up as much space as he possibly could. Jon smirked at him and pushed over a little pile of sand until it toppled onto the back of Spencer's hand.  
  
"I don't honestly know," Jon replied slowly. He looked up into the trees. He found that if he avoided looking at Spencer as much as possible, he could ignore the twisty, swirly feeling deep in his belly. He had become quite adept at ignoring that feeling. "We'll probably get put out on another ship soon enough. I hear the Enterprise is doing fine. Maybe the Hornet?"  
  
"No," Spencer twitched his nose irritably. "I meant... Nevermind." His fingers dug deeply into the sand, disturbing Jon's little piles. Jon wasn't sure if he wanted to continue the thread of this conversation. Didn't know if he wanted to find out what was on Spencer's mind. But then he wasn't the kind of guy to sit back and just watch, wait for something to happen. He had _signed up_ for this war, for goodness sake. Signed up, when surely he would have been drafted if he had just waited a while longer.  
  
Jon wasn't one to wait.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, cautiously; still carefully looking away from Spencer. Spencer took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.  
  
"I mean... I don't know, I think I've been in this hospital for too long. I don't know what I'm thinking anymore."  
  
"I still don't--" There was a sick, twittery feeling in Jon's stomach. It was almost like how he felt when he first started flying; how he still felt every time he took off. He couldn't tell if it was good or bad.  
  
"Sometimes I think that you--that we--" Spencer bit his lip, and Jon noticed that he was actively looking anywhere but at him, too. "God, Jon! This isn't how things were supposed to turn out! I was supposed to fly with my friends! Then the Navy stole me, and I ended up flying with you, and I know you don't--and I can't stop," but he did stop, and curled up in on himself. Long legs pulling in, elbows on knees, hands in his hair. Jon could just hear Spencer mutter to himself, "You're going to kick my ass."  
  
Jon's mind skittered in several directions at once.  
  
"I don't what?" He ignored the ass kicking bit.  
  
Spencer looked up at him, eyes blazing.  
  
"You don't want what I want." Jon just sat there. His mouth was hanging open slightly, but damn if he couldn't move a muscle to do anything about it. "I keep telling myself to stop it. That you don't--" Spencer tore his eyes away. "You want to go home, find a girl... But I don't--I don't want to be somebody's lame excuse for a blanket wife; that's not it at all." Spencer looked up at him again, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. "I want _you_ ," he said plainly, finally. Jon managed to close his mouth.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"And now you're going to kick my ass," Spencer said again dejectedly.  
  
"Will you stop saying that? You're putting words in my mouth," Jon said evenly. He was kind of proud of his self-control. "Did I ever say I wanted to go home? Find a girl? Well? _Did I?_ "  
  
"No," Spencer replied, voice low.  
  
"Have I ever gone looking for a blanket wife? All this time?"  
  
"No," Spencer said again.  
  
"No. Nor will I. You don't know what I want, Spencer." Spencer's eyes snapped up to meet his again at the sound of his name. Jon's voice softened. "How do you know I don't want... what--what you want?"  
  
Spencer stared at him for what seemed like hours and was probably about 15 seconds.  
  
"I--" Spencer began but immediately closed his mouth to reconsider his words. "We can't."  
  
"Why not? Nobody has to know," Jon said. He looked out at the ocean as he spoke. If he looked at Spencer he was sure his resolve would crumble. "Nobody but us."  
  
It was as simple as that. It took nearly ten weeks to get there, but finally Jon and Spencer seemed to be on the same page.

***

It was mid August when Jon and Spencer got cleared to return to duty. The problem was, at this point, the fact that their previous duty station was at the bottom of the ocean. There seemed to be another problem, though, too. The Navy wanted to replace their dauntlesses with new aircraft. And that meant that they needed to go learn how to fly said new aircraft.  
  
They got their shipping orders almost immediately. They didn't matter, of course. For a couple of reasons. The first was the change of aircraft bit. That was going to take some time, which mostly depended on how similar their new birds would be to the old ones. The second reason was that their new flattop hadn't even been commissioned yet. She was still sitting at the naval yard in Norfolk. Jon and Spencer weren't due to join her until April.  
  
Only God and the Secretary of the Navy knew what the hell was going on there.  
  
Turns out that their training took them to Arizona. Spencer was thrilled. He was desert born and bred--which amused Jon to no end. _The Navy, Spence. Shipboard. They couldn't have put you somewhere more different from what you knew if they tried._ It was still out in the middle of nowhere, but it wasn't going to keep him from seeing his family again. Spencer's mother and sisters were going to visit him. Jon was secretly terrified.  
  
Once they were actually in Arizona, however, Jon and Spencer were far too busy to worry about anything other than learning their new aircraft. Which sucked. They _hated_ it. It seemed to be a pretty universal opinion, too. Their nice, compact, _dependable_ little dauntlesses were being scrapped for new Curtiss SB2C Helldivers. Or, as the pilots liked to say, the Son-of-a-Bitch 2nd Class.  
  
The only thing they liked about the helldivers was that they had folding wings. That was pretty slick. It did not make up for the fact that a helldiver was a bitch on a stick. To say that it had difficult handling characteristics was just the beginning. The damn things were plagued with malfunctions of every fashion. Something new seemed to be broken every day.  
  
To top it all off, they had to contend with new gunners. New gunners who were both named Chris. It was kind of confusing.  
  
At first it was hard to climb into a plane and not follow-up with Brent, or Tom. Their deaths were still fresh, and would be inextricably linked in their minds to their old aircraft. Not to mention the Yorktown. Perhaps it was for the best that they were not returning to duty with either.  
  
Spencer's new gunner was a goofy, wiry little guy named Faller. He was kind of a dipshit. Spencer seemed to be batting a thousand as far as his gunners went; really he could give a rat's ass. Sure, he was a nice enough guy and all. And he was from Chicago, which meant that Jon automatically liked him. It was just... The guy was kind of out there. Spacey. And it didn't help that most of the issues the two of them had with their plane stemmed from something Faller did. Spencer was perpetually annoyed.  
  
Jon's new gunner was _fantastic_. It came as no surprise; the guy was essentially a version of Jon in the future. How Jon would be (could be) in ten years. Carrabba was a second grade teacher from Florida who had been drafted into service. He was laid back, pleasant, subtly funny, and rarely in proper uniform. Jon liked him immediately. Then, it was unusual for Jon to actively dislike someone. Carrabba was fun and irreverent. Spencer alternately found him very enjoyable or loathed him. It was disturbing.  
  
Spencer was jealous.  
  
If pressed, Spencer would have said that he hadn't a jealous bone in his body. His friends and lovers could do whatever they wished and it would bother him not at all. But with Jon... Things were so strange. Different. With Jon, they hadn't so much as kissed, but Spencer felt a variety of violent emotions. Among them protectiveness. Territoriality. Jon was _his_.  
  
There was something else about Carrabba that Spencer just couldn't put his finger on. It took him weeks to figure it out. Weeks of poking and worrying at it like a sore tooth. Carrabba not only reminded him of Jon (strangely enough), but also of _Brendon_. It caused a sudden, massive wave of homesickness to wash over him. Spencer missed Brendon and Ryan dearly. He was so close to home in the Arizona desert, yet Brendon and Ryan were still on duty in Europe. Brendon would like Jon, Spencer was sure. Ryan would too. But then, Ryan always loved who Spencer loved.  
  
***  
  
They trained on Helldivers for seven months before the new USS Yorktown left the Norfolk naval yard. Jon and Spencer weren't _on board_ , but the new Yorktown set sail for the Pacific, just as her predecessor had done. Nobody had a good feeling about it. Everybody just kept on training, figuring they'd worry about it when the time came.  
  
It was over a year, nearly thirteen months of struggling to learn new controls and fighting with temperamental armament before anyone was actually deployed. Those Helldivers seriously sucked.  
  
Spencer and Jon and Faller and Carrabba met the Yorktown in San Francisco. They flew their shiny new helldivers from Arizona, up the California coast. It would have been beautiful if any of them had taken the time to look. But they had to meet their ship. The Yorktown took on supplies, and the new aircraft, and headed out to sea again on September 15, 1943.  
  
It was strange to be shipboard again. Everything seemed closed in and crowded.  
  
For Jon and Spencer, the rest of the year was spent milling about in the general vicinity of Hawaii; bouncing back and forth between the base at Pearl Harbor and various islands. Marcus Island. Wake Island. The Gilbert Islands. Early '44 found them conducting raids from New Guinea all the way north to the Marianas, poking holes in the Japanese defense. They went back to Hawaii in May to conduct training operations.  
  
By June they were back out in the Pacific.  
  
They bombed Guam. They bombed the Bonin Islands. They bombed the Marianas again. It became the Battle of the Philippine Sea. They really didn't want to have to think about it ever again. So many ships, so many planes. Five US battle groups, with twelve carriers and more than a hundred support craft. They downed three Japanese carriers. Six-hundred planes. So, so many planes. Any one of them could have been Jon's. Or Spencer's. As it was, their losses were minimal compared to the Japanese. They only lost 123 aircraft. They felt every single one.  
  
It was quiet in the days after the battle. The calm after the storm, if you will. They were headed--albeit slowly--back to the States. The pilots tended to be silent and restive, as a group. Spencer was cranky, and his mood bled over into Jon, who turned snappish and withdrawn. Their gunners avoided them. That was fine. They just wanted to be alone anyway. Jon and Spencer had been spoiled by their long recuperation at Pearl and their subsequent training. In the hospital, once they had their legs again, of course, they could go essentially whereever they wanted. Could find little places to hide, tuck up together and just be. It was the same in Arizona. They had been busy, sure, but once they were done for the day they could go off, do what they wanted. Practically disappear.  
  
It was August 17 when the Yorktown finally arrived at the Puget Sound Navy Yard. Everyone was so keyed up from having spent long months at sea that it seemed like sailors and pilots alike spilled off the ship like, well, like rats off a sinking ship. Seattle didn't know what it had coming to it.  
  
Faller and Carrabba tried enthusiastically to get Jon and Spencer to take the ferry to Seattle with them, see what was up. They were unsuccessful. Faller and Carrabba wanted to go out to clubs; drink, look for girls. A lot of the guys were doing that. Jon and Spencer just wanted to be out, off the ship. They were going to stay in Bremerton, maybe go to the movies.  
  
Faller almost argued.  
  
"You're boring!" he whined, squinting at the two of them pointedly. Carrabba, at his side, shrugged and flashed a wicked grin at them before he hauled Faller off the ship, squawking. Spencer laughed, but Jon felt how he had tensed under Carrabba's knowing gaze.  
  
It _felt_ like a knowing gaze anyway.  
  
Jon quickly took stock. They hadn't done anything, as far as he could tell, that would make Carrabba--or anyone, for that matter--think something was going on. Ever. They weren't standing too close, weren't touching at all. They weren't exchanging too-long glances, or smiling, or, or _anything_. Jon couldn't figure out how-- _if_ \--Carrabba knew anything. Really, there wasn't anything to know. They lived on a _ship_ , for goodness sake.  
  
But they had two months docked in Puget Sound. Two months of a lot of leave time. They couldn't go on honest-to-goodness leave; they had to stay near the ship. But they could go to Seattle. They could hang out in Bremerton. They could even stay out for a couple days continuously if they had permission.  
  
And oh, _they had permission_. Jon and Spencer were getting the hell out of there.  
  
After a good bit of walking, they managed to find a little hotel on the other side of the Bremerton peninsula. The clerk didn't even bat an eye. Apparently it was common for sailors on leave to come across, looking for a place where at the very least they couldn't see their ship any more. They made some polite conversation, made some inquiries, and then were off to find their room.  
  
It wasn't anything special; it was just a room. Still, Jon found his palms were sweating, and Spencer stood with unusually correct posture. It made him seem very tall. They dropped their things inside the door and stood looking at each other guiltily for several long minutes. Finally, Jon broke the silence.  
  
"Do you want to go see a movie?" he asked. His face was all scrunched, and one shoulder was hunched up, like he expected Spencer to hit him. Spencer just laughed.  
  
"Sure," he said. "Sure. Let's go. We passed the theater on the way over here, didn't we?" They had, so it was only a short trek to find it again. A movie was normal. A movie was safe. A movie was something they could talk about when they got back on the ship when they would be invariably asked, " _So, whatcha do on leave?_ " Maybe they would go see a couple of movies.  
  
Jon and Spencer walked to the Admiral Theater. It was only a couple years old, and still seemed pretty new and shiny. Even though Bremerton wasn't the largest city around, it got decent movies. They figured it was because of the military presence. Keep them happy. It was nice. They ended up seeing "Hail the Conquering Hero," which was supposed to be a comedy. _Supposed_ to be. Spencer found it to be stupid. He didn't think it was funny at all to fake a military career. Fake service. Fake _injuries_. It was disrespectful.  
  
Jon thought it was stupid. But funny stupid. He mostly just watched Spencer anyway.  
  
They stopped off for some beers on the way back to the hotel. They knew to be careful, and quiet, and polite, even though they were back in the States. Not everyone was the biggest fan of military servicemen. They got in, they had a silent but smiling drink, they got out. Then they walked back to the hotel.  
  
It was quiet when they returned. The sound of their feet on the carpet seemed unnaturally loud. Every door hinge creaked. Every stair step squeaked. Jon and Spencer remained speechless. When they paused to unlock the door to their room, Jon glanced up at Spencer quickly. _His eyes_. The look in his eyes was the same as it had been back all those months ago in Hawaii, and it made Jon fumble the key. Spencer just smirked. That made it worse, really, and Jon told him so.  
  
Spencer's grin became wolfish. It made Jon's skin prickle and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. He really just needed to get the damn door open.  
  
Jon got the door open.  
  
They looked at each other for a long moment once they got inside the room. It seemed very quiet. The only sound Jon could hear was his harsh breath, and Spencer's. They were both hesitant. Fear and lust are both strong motivators. Jon had been tamping down the lust, letting fear win, for a very long time now. But then Spencer took a step, just one step towards Jon, and it seemed to set everything in motion. Jon closed the distance between them and grabbed fistfulls of Spencer's shirt with both hands before crashing their mouths together.  
  
It was nothing like Jon would have expected a first kiss to be. And everything. It was Spencer. _Finally_.  
  
Spencer gasped, his mouth opening, a chance not lost upon Jon. He swept his tongue in, twirling and tasting, and Spencer met him act for act, until he pulled away, panting, eyes glassy.  
  
" _Jesus_ , Jon," he murmured. Jon chuckled breathily, nosing Spencer's throat. He spread his fingers, at once releasing the fabric and pressing them into the flesh above Spencer's ribs. Jon smiled into the soft skin at the join of neck and shoulder, the dip of collarbone once broken. "You're laughing at me," Spencer said softly, chiding.  
  
"No," said Jon, gently shaking his head, his breath on Spencer's skin. He smiled harder. "Not at all."  
  
"You _are_ ," Spencer insisted. Jon raised his head to meet Spencer's eyes with his lower lip captured firmly between his teeth. The picture of innocence, ruined almost immediately by a shit-eating grin. Spencer huffed. "I've never--"  
  
Jon kissed his lips again, sweetly.  
  
"Neither have I," he said.  
  
"No. No," Spencer continued. He looked away, up at the corner of the room at nothing at all. "I joined the Navy when I was _seventeen_ , Jon. Just. The day after my birthday. The summer before I joined? I played ball with Ryan and Brendon. We were children. Not--I didn't--girls weren't--and _boys_... Jon, I was a _child_." His fingers clenched on Jon's biceps. Jon pressed his nose under Spencer's jaw in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and shushed him gently.  
  
"Don't worry," he said softly. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."  
  
"That's just it," Spencer replied. "I want to do _everything_."  
  
A wild, gleeful surge spread up through Jon all the way down from his toes. It was as if he couldn't contain the sly smirk sliding across his lips.  
  
"We do only have two weeks of leave, you know."

 

[Part Two](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/11913.html#cutid1)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.

**My Wings Have No Feathers**

**Band(s):** PATD, FOB, MCR, AAR, THS, DC, TAI, CS, PP  
 **Pairing(s):** Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, (pre-foursome)  
 **Word Count:** 22,592  
 **Rating/Warnings:** NC-17, sex, language, secondary character deaths, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)

**Summary:** It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.  
  
There's angst! There's sex! There's death and destruction! Hell, it's War.  
  
And then they go home. (There's angst. There's sex. There's ~~death and destruction~~ more angst.) They learn how to be people again, and in the process, find each other.  
  
Come on, who can resist a man in uniform?

 

 

**Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content**

[**Fanart:**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12314.html) by [](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/profile)[**maybe_a_sunday**](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Fanmix:** ](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=NBZ8P5W6) by [](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/profile)[**onigaminanashi**](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12711.html#cutid1)

[Part One](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/11592.html#cutid1)

** **

It wasn't as if Jon didn't want to lay Spencer down and fuck him until he turned blue. Oh no. He would. Well, maybe not _blue_ , precisely, but generally that was the idea. But he also didn't want to go too far, too fast and freak him out. So they took it slow. Not too slow; they did sort of have a deadline.  
  
That first night in the hotel, they kept it relatively chaste. Clothing remained firmly in place. Their hands barely wandered. They spent hours learning each other's mouths, and that was enough. They spent the night in the same bed, but still, they were fully clothed. Aside from the fact that they were wrapped around each other, it was hardly more than a friendly overnight.  
  
Jon woke the next morning to the sound of Spencer taking a deep, centering breath. They were tangled up with one another, and sometime in the night one of Jon's hands had found its way underneath Spencer's shirt. He focused on the feel of soft skin over lean muscle and bone, letting Spencer know he was awake by tracing small shapes on the long plane of his back. Spencer squirmed, and it drew Jon's attention to the erection pressed against his thigh.  
  
"Mornin', sailor," Jon mumbled against the top of Spencer's head. Spencer groaned and snickered.  
  
"You've been dying to try that out, haven't you," he stated dryly.  
  
"That, among other things."  
  
Jon slid his hand out from under Spencer's shirt, dragging the thumb deliberately across his skin until it met fabric again and slipped down to palm Spencer's ass. At the pressure, Spencer hitched toward Jon, grinding them together. Spencer threw his head back, presenting his lips for Jon to take and kiss again and again.  
  
"I want to touch you," Spencer rasped. The sound of his voice sent chills down Jon's spine.  
  
"It's your call," Jon replied breathlessly. "Whatever you want. Anything. Anything you want."  
  
Spencer accepted the invitation with alacrity. He quickly threw a leg over Jon's hip and rolled them until Jon lay on his back with Spencer looking down at him, straddling Jon's hips and smirking. Spencer tugged at Jon's shirt eagerly, straining the buttons and prompting a surprised "oh, _oh!_ " He grinned when Jon popped enough buttons so Spencer could easily tug the shirt over his head. Spencer's eyes gleamed darkly as he took in the expanse of skin they had uncovered. His hands skittered aimlessly until they landed on the waistband of Jon's pants and settled firmly. Jon took the moment of inaction to pluck at Spencer's shirt in turn, loose buttons, and slide it from his shoulders. Spencer shrugged the shirt away impatiently. It was August, and they both were lightly tanned from laying about on deck when nothing was going on. Jon's hands swept over Spencer's skin, making him shudder.  
  
"What do you want?" Jon asked again. Spencer undid more buttons until Jon's pants were splayed across his hips, framing pale green boxers. Spencer grinned. Jon was always carefully in uniform, right down to his shorts. Apparently even when he was off duty.  
  
Jon squirmed and arched an eyebrow.  
  
"Ok, ok, just--" Spencer's hands fluttered briefly as if he didn't know what to do with them, where to put them. Jon figured that was actually probably pretty accurate. Then he leaned closer, resting his hands on Jon's bare waist. His fingers spread from ribs to waistband, and Jon held his breath as Spencer merely sat and looked at him for a moment. When Spencer didn't make a move, Jon breathed a gentle " _come on_ ," and tugged until they lay pressed together chest to chest. Spencer's hands slid up Jon's sides, making him writhe deliciously. Jon hooked his thumbs into the loops of Spencer's pants and tipped his head back, offering himself up to be kissed. Spencer took him up on it and didn't even seem to notice while Jon undid belt and buttons and worked his pants down.  
  
At the very least, Spencer didn't appear to be nervous any more.  
  
Spencer kicked his pants away impatiently and immediately decided that Jon's were not acceptable either. Jon bit his lip to stifle the laughter bubbling up from his chest at Spencer's single-minded determination. There was a reason he made an excellent fighter pilot. Many reasons, actually. That was one of them.  
  
They soon lay in the bed again side by side. Spencer alternated between kissing Jon and watching while his hands explored some spot. Jon thought it was hilarious and adorable; neither of which would he ever voice aloud to Spencer, who would be horrified. Spencer learned quickly though, and really needed very little direction. He was a natural. Jon was soon writhing and panting, and Spencer hadn't even done anything particularly dirty yet. Jon thought that needed to change, and quick. He hooked a foot around Spencer's knee and arched his back. It pressed them together from chest to hip, and Spencer hissed. He _hissed_. A groan tore from Jon's throat and he let his head tilt back and his eyes slip shut. He just wanted to feel.  
  
Spencer mouthed Jon's neck wetly while one thumb traced circles on his hip. Jon, though--Jon needed more. He reached down between their bodies and tucked his hand under the waistband of Spencer's shorts. Spencer jerked and dug his nails into Jon's side. Jon simply murmured soothingly and continued moving his hand. He found Spencer hard and hot; long and smooth and silky against his palm. Spencer whimpered high in his throat when Jon started to stroke him. He managed to work up a quick rhythm, even though Spencer wiggled and flailed. It didn't take long, but Jon was neither concerned nor surprised. Spencer came with a strangled groan, his fingers digging harshly into Jon's skin. Jon merely pressed a smile into Spencer's bare shoulder.  
  
"Holy _crap_ ," breathed Spencer. Jon snorted softly, prompting a thump to his skull. "That is _so_ different when somebody else does it for you."  
  
"That's kind of the idea," laughed Jon.  
  
"I still haven't really..." Spencer blushed inexplicably and looked away. He sighed before looking at Jon again. "I want to touch you. Can I touch you?"  
  
Jon smiled and grabbed Spencer's hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the tips of each finger.  
  
"I told you," he said. "You can do anything you want."  
  
Spencer smirked.  
  
"Will you fuck me?" he asked lightly, the picture of innocence. Jon shuddered. He had to bite his lip hard, until the pain overrode his need to come.  
  
"Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Spencer. Go straight for the kill, why don't you." Spencer just snickered and turned big blue eyes on him. _Innocent, his Aunt Fanny_. "How do you--? What--"  
  
"Let me just..." Spencer wormed his way down Jon's body until he lay between his legs. Jon needed a few deep breaths. Calming. Spencer looked up at him before he quickly and efficiently stripped Jon of his shorts. Jon managed not to kick him in the head, of which he was very proud. The look on Spencer's face, however, was disconcerting.  
  
"You don't have to, Spence--"  
  
"No. No," Spencer cut him off. "Just give me a second. I've never been faced with dick before." Jon arched an eyebrow teasingly. "I've _seen_ dick before. _Obviously._ Just. Never wanted to--well, put one in my mouth before." Said mouth was close enough that Jon could feel Spencer's breath on his skin. His hips twitched under Spencer's hands. "Impatient."  
  
"Better things you could be doing with that mouth than talking," said Jon breathlessly. "You keep ta-alking..." Spencer bent his head and slipped his lips around the head of Jon's cock when he was mid-word. Jon, for one, stopped talking. He was pretty sure Spencer was done talking too.  
  
Jon only let Spencer suck him for a few minutes, but it seemed like forever. He was inexpert, sure, but it mattered little. Spencer was enthusiastic, and sloppy, and Jon had to push him away gently.  
  
"Stop, stop, or we're going to be done." Spencer looked up at him and licked his already shiny lips. Jon groaned and had to close his eyes. "You're going to kill me."  
  
Spencer actually blushed. That didn't stop him from continuing to jack Jon slowly.  
  
"No, no, I'm serious."  
  
"Ok," Spencer tapped Jon's hip as he went to move off the bed. "Just let me get, um, something." Jon arched an eyebrow again, but he wasn't teasing. He watched as Spencer got up and walked to his bag in the corner of the room. The play of muscles in his back, his legs, his _fantastic ass_ made Jon bite down on his lip once more and press down hard on the base of his cock. Spencer turned around quickly and caught Jon touching himself, as it were. His eyes flicked up to Jon's face, then back down again. Jon pressed down harder. Spencer clutched a small bottle in his hands and nodded at Jon before he tossed it. Jon half sat and caught the bottle in one smooth motion.  
  
"Why do you have glycerine?" he wondered.  
  
"My mom sent it to me. I have dry skin," Spencer replied with a shrug.  
  
"Whoa, let's leave your mom out of this."  
  
"Hey, you asked," Spencer countered. The smirk was back. Jon shook his head.  
  
"Come on," said Jon. Spencer climbed back onto the bed, onto Jon. Jon used his momentum and rolled them, until Spencer lay on his back with a surprised look on his face. Jon kissed him. Over and over again, until Spencer's cheeks were flushed and the bottle that lay in his hand was warm. "Are you ready?" he asked. Spencer nodded silently. Jon removed the bottle cap and drizzled some of the liquid on his fingers. It was vaguely sweet-smelling. Spencer watched him, color slowly draining away from his face. Now was not the time for fear to take hold, so Jon leaned down and kissed Spencer again. And reached between his legs.  
  
Spencer jerked as he felt Jon's slick fingers against his skin. He threw his arms around Jon's neck and focused on returning his kisses. Jon did his best to distract Spencer with his mouth, and he could feel it as Spencer relaxed in his arms. So he pushed one finger inside. It was so tight it actually hurt, and Jon wondered for a moment if he would be able to get any further than that.  
  
"Relax, Spence," Jon whispered against his mouth.  
  
"Easy for you to say," Spencer huffed. Jon scrunched up his face.  
  
"Maybe I'm not distracting you well enough," he wondered, half to himself. Spencer looked dubious. "Maybe I'm not focusing my distraction technique in the right area..." And Jon slithered down Spencer's body until he lay between his legs, face to face with his cock. So to speak. Jon made a questioning noise and Spencer shivered. Jon took that as a good sign and sucked the head of Spencer's cock into his mouth. Spencer's hips bucked off the bed. Jon took it all in stride. And took the opportunity to slide in another finger.  
  
Spencer gasped and Jon's bones ground together. They both groaned, and Jon let Spencer's cock slip out of his mouth.  
  
"It's ok; it's ok; it's ok..." he repeated softly, over and over. His lips brushed the pale skin at Spencer's hip. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Spencer relaxed. Jon could wiggle his fingers, and thrust them gently in and out of Spencer's body. Spencer gasped again, but differently. Pleased. His flagging erection perked up a bit. "There we go," Jon remarked under his breath. He cast about blindly for Spencer's little bottle of glycerine, finding it tucked in among the bedclothes. "Here," Jon said as he placed it in Spencer's hands. Spencer shook his head, confused. "Put some on your hands. A lot. I want you to..." Spencer poured a big dollop into one cupped palm and rubbed them together. "More," Jon said. Spencer squinted a little but did as he was asked. "Ok." Jon pulled his fingers away and wiped them quickly on the sheets before getting up on his knees. Spencer's eyes widened a tiny bit, and he stopped rubbing his hands together, but he smiled when Jon reached for him. That was good. He wasn't so nervous as all that.  
  
Jon leaned up and kissed Spencer again.  
  
"Put your hands on me," Jon breathed against Spencer's lips. Spencer's breath stuttered, so Jon kissed him yet again. "Put your hands on me," he repeated. "I want you to get me all... slick."  
  
Spencer's grip was surprisingly firm, after all the trepidation.  
  
Jon entered him slowly; inch by agonizing inch. Spencer's breath was determinedly steady, even if he was betrayed by sweaty palms and trembling thighs. Jon wouldn't hold it against him. Spencer was gorgeous, and it took all Jon's fortitude to keep from simply thrusting wildly.  
  
It seemed to take forever. Jon was so careful. He didn't want to ruin any future opportunities to touch Spencer by hurting him now. Finally, Jon was startled by Spencer gently tapping on his ribs. He looked down at him, and Spencer nodded, just barely. Jon took his cue. He rolled his hips, sliding smoothly. Spencer arched his back, baring the long line of his throat. Jon leaned down and licked there. The angle--and quite possibly the licking--made Spencer keen and scrabble frantically at Jon's back. Jon merely grinned against Spencer's skin.  
  
Too soon, Jon suspected that Spencer was nearing the edge. Every breath was an exhalation of Jon's name, or _please_ , or some curse. It was intoxicating, and Jon wished it could go on forever, even as he felt tightness curling in his own belly. He shifted, reaching between them to wrap his hand around Spencer's neglected cock. Spencer gasped and jerked, spilling between them. Jon followed almost immediately, stunned.  
  
***  
  
The last day before Jon and Spencer were scheduled to report to duty aboardship again, they went to see another movie. "Double Indemnity". Much better than their first choice. Murder, intrigue, fantastic cinematography. It was great, and even better, gave them something safe to talk about later.  
  
"You have a weird thing for Barbara Stanwyck."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"You _do_."  
  
"She was _good!_ "  
  
"Uh huh. You keep saying that."  
  
"Because it's _true!_ "  
  
They bickered good-naturedly all the way back to the ship. Even Faller and Carrabba got in on it. They counted it as a win. No one asked how their leave was.  
  
***  
  
The Yorktown was docked at Puget Sound until the second week of October. They weren't flying that whole time, but Jon and Spencer didn't get extended leave again. Neither did any of the other pilots, for that matter. They were all bored and stir-crazy by the time they departed. The idea was that it wasn't fair to all the other sailors who had to be on board the ship actually doing their duty (for the most part) if the pilots got to go off and have fun. Everybody got one two-week leave, and that was it. It was fair, sure. That wasn't to say that it didn't suck.  
  
It took two days for them to go down the coast to Alameda. There was a strange sort of excited current running through them all. Alameda was where they took on new planes and other various supplies. It was where Jon and Spencer had met the ship in the first place. Now there was a new batch of pilots and planes. And it was almost like Jon and Spencer were starting over with the Yorktown. She was on repeat; headed back out to the Pacific again. They were due to meet their task group at the beginning of November.  
  
***  
  
 _January 1944_  
  
Ryan and Brendon's unit flew missions to Oschersleben, Halberstadt, and Brunswick that week. Ryan and Brendon flew to Brunswick. _Braunschweig_. Brendon liked to growl them out in a bad German accent. It made Ryan smile at his silliness. Brendon was all about getting people to smile. Ryan. Getting Ryan to smile.  
  
The mission to Brunswick...  
  
Braunschweig.  
  
 _Awful._  
  
The weather sucked, for one. For two, there were a ton of targets, and Ryan hated multiple target runs. It made Pete all twitchy, and gave him far too much flight control for Ryan's comfort. Pete would have made an excellent kamikaze. It terrified Ryan to let Pete have the controls. Not the least because it took it away from Ryan. And Ryan wasn't so sure he liked what that said about his personality. Brendon didn't seem to mind, though. He grinned like the cat with the cream regardless of who was actually flying the plane. Ryan thought he was nuts. That's all there was to it. Pete too. It made sense.  
  
So they were flying to Brunswick for factories, and an infantry garrison, and a division headquarters. Important targets. The weather was awful, though. The Commander actually ordered the mission cancelled at one point, it got so bad, but they couldn't. They couldn't just turn around and come back. The leads had already encountered anti-aircraft fire by the time he called it. It was too late. Point of no return. They may as well keep on going, crap weather or no.  
  
It wasn't the same story for their escorts, though. The little P-51's never went all the way into hostile territory with them. Of course not; not like they were supposed to. They were fast and maneuverable, relative to the lumbering bombers, but they were no match for anti-aircraft fire. They'd get torn up. So they lost their escorts. Most of them turned back. It was just too rough for the smaller planes. Ryan could understand. It was hard enough getting his big girl to do what he wanted in bad weather, and he had Brendon to help.  
  
As bombing runs went, it was standard. Fast and furious. Ryan and Brendon both white-knuckled, gripping their sticks. Pete dropping ordinance one after the other, cool as a cucumber. Major Chislett barking commands and locations, back and forth over the radio and Pete, and Suarez frantically calculating at the nav station. Patrick trotting from gunner to gunner, round and round, with them teasing and hassling him the whole time. That is, until one of them caught sight of enemy aircraft.  
  
Ryan always felt like a lost soul whenever they encountered enemy aircraft during a bombing run. He couldn't do anything, and he had a fantastic view of the destruction. Mikey and Ray over on the _Bunny Marie_ had actually come up with that concept. Ryan liked it, though, and kept it for his own. He and Brendon were very much like lost souls on the _Keltie Colleen_ when she was in action. They were between worlds when they were bombing: on the ground they were just _Brendon and Ryan_ ; in transit they were _the pilots_ , obviously rather integral to the proceedings. When they were bombing, Ryan just didn't know what to do with himself.  
  
And they were supposed to stay in formation.  
  
They were supposed to stay in formation for a reason. For the love of all that is good and holy, though, Ryan couldn't remember _why_ they were supposed to stay in formation. Just that they were. Maybe it was like they were a school of fish. In it for the protection, confusing the predators. But it always seemed like they would be an easier target that way. Bigger. Or maybe it had something to do with the combined effect of their gunners taking out enemy aircraft around each other. Whatever it was, the key idea was that they stayed in formation.  
  
So Ryan noticed when the _Bunny Marie_ went out.  
  
He thinks the both of them started screaming into their radios at the same time, trying to get somebody on the _Bunny Marie_ to talk to them. Nobody did. They were too busy screaming at Greenwald, their bombardier, and Wheeler, their navigator. One of them did _something_... and then they were out of formation.  
  
Out of formation.  
  
Out of protective cover.  
  
Out of luck.  
  
The crew of the _Bunny Marie_ had made it through Black Thursday. Hundreds of bombing runs with fighter escorts and without. Breaking formation was enough to end their streak.  
  
Ryan and Brendon watched helplessly as the _Bunny Marie_ took fire across her nose. They watched her yaw, and drop into a dive. They watched as Mikey and Ray fought with their controls, obvious as their craft pitched and shuddered, fighting back. They watched until the angle prevented them from seeing, and then they looked at each other.  
  
Ryan knew his lip was bleeding. He had bitten straight through it. Brendon's cheeks were pale and his eyes glittered dangerously. But he stretched across the space separating them in the cockpit and reached for Ryan. Ryan pried his stiff fingers away from his controls and tangled them with Brendon's. He knew he was clutching so tightly it was painful, but Brendon didn't say a word.  
  
The _Bunny Marie_ was gone.  
  
***  
  
Everyone back at High Wycombe was subdued. Losses had been heavy this round. Not only had their escort fighters not gone all the way to the targets with them, they had also managed to miss the rendezvous on the return. Sixty B-17s hadn't made it back. Sixty heavies destroyed.  
  
Ryan, Brendon, and their crew didn't know what to do. There was a gaping hole on the flightline where the _Bunny Marie_ had sat. Gerard was despondent, and poor Frank was beside himself with worry. Everyone was convinced that Gerard would do himself harm. He was put under watch for days, until it became clear that he wasn't a danger to himself or others. Really, Gerard simply couldn't bring himself to deal with Mikey's wife. Gerard had promised Alicia that he would bring Mikey safely home.  
  
Gerard and Frank were both sent home to the States shortly therafter.  
  
***  
  
 _February 1944_  
  
Someone who mattered finally decided it was a brilliant idea to equip their fighter escorts with drop tanks. Finally. Two years after the start of the bombing runs, and finally the P-51 Mustangs and the P-47 Thunderbolts had their ranges extended to the point where they actually made themselves useful to the bombers. It made a huge difference. Losses were cut dramatically.  
  
That last week in February became known as Big Week. Over 1,000 B-17s and B-24s were sent out to destroy German aircraft factories. The Brits started out the whole thing in Leipsig on the night of the 19th. The Americans, Brendon and Ryan included, followed later. Leipsig again, Bernburg, and Oschersleben. Then they returned to Braunschweig.  
  
The entire crew of the _Keltie Colleen_ was twitchy. Brendon and Ryan weren't the only ones who had befriended the crew of the _Bunny Marie_. Brendon and Ryan weren't the only ones who had watched her go down. Brendon and Ryan were just the ones who had to fly the plane. They had a job to do, a duty to fulfill. And that sent them back to Brunswick.  
  
Brendon's hands shook on the controls, though he didn't let go; not once. Ryan's wrapped in a vice-like grip, his long fingers whitened from the strain. Neither of them had actual control, not during the bombing run. That was Pete's, and always had been. But they couldn't help it, not now. Not after they had seen what could happen if somebody did lose control. They clutched their controls all the way to Brunswick and back, and were sweaty and exhausted when they fell into their beds.  
  
The end of Big Week culminated with missions to Furth, Augsburg, and Regensburg, attacking the Messerschmitt plants there. It was starting to become routine for them again, which was painful in its own way. They had flown so many sorties. It was easy to fall into rote flying. But that was the way people got into trouble. The Luftwaffe looked for things like that. Easy pickings when you weren't paying attention.  
  
As it was, even with the improved fighter escorts, the 8th still lost 31 bombers to Big Week.  
  
***  
  
 _April 1945_  
  
The Eighth was due to pull out of the bombing campaign. They all knew it. The bomber groups weren't all up and leaving at the same time, but the last run over Axis territory was scheduled for April 25. Brendon and Ryan didn't have to wait that long. Theirs was scheduled for the fifth. Again, it was to Brunswick. It quite literally made Brendon bash his head against the wall.  
  
" _God_ , I _hate_ that place!" he whined. Ryan winced in sympathy. He knew. Luckily, his gentle, reassuring hand on Brendon's elbow prevented further damage to their room. Brendon had a thick skull. Ryan was sure the little girls, when they returned, would not appreciate it. Brendon merely ground his forehead into the plaster, instead.  
  
"It's one last time," said Ryan. "Then we get to go home."  
  
Brendon's movements stilled entirely.  
  
" _Home_ ," he whispered. To Ryan it almost sounded like a prayer. But he had never heard Brendon pray aloud, not as Ryan himself was wont to do, albeit under his breath. It was better. And that shocked Ryan for a moment. That he would think something so blatantly and completely blasphemous.  
  
But it was.  
  
It _was_ better. Better than unanswered prayers was the promise of home. Home meant Spencer and Brendon and their families--well, sort of. Inasmuch as any of their families wanted them now, what with how they left, and how things have been. Who else they've lost.  
  
Brendon's family didn't want him back. Brendon didn't know that Ryan knew. That Ryan had stumbled upon the letter from his mother while it lay crumpled at the foot of his bed. Had almost thrown it out. He didn't know that Ryan had seen what his mother had said to him. What his father had said, through her. She had said that the Uries had no sons. Not now that Matt and Mason were gone, lost to D-Day, last June, and to the Liberation of Paris, last August. Brendon had broken her heart, she said, and in her heart, Brendon was dead. Dead since he left them without asking, without telling. Dead since he left them alone.  
  
As for Ryan, well. He didn't have a mother to worry about. And his father... It was for the best when that bastard was sent to the bottom of the sea by a German U-boat. Ryan was free from his tyranny.  
  
Spencer surely had the best prospects of the three of them. From what he gathered from Spencer's letters, his mother had been angry, sure. She got over it. Spencer's father had been spared military service due to some quirk. Flat feet, ruptured eardrums, something vague and unimportant in the long run. And Spencer had no brothers, just the two little sisters who were growing up gorgeous right before her eyes. Spencer's mother was relatively secure in her standing. Spencer would come home. Ryan and Brendon would come home.  
  
Spencer's mother fancied that Ryan and Brendon would marry her daughters.  
  
Ryan found this idea ludicrous at best, utterly horrifying at worst. The twins were practically his sisters too. Ryan really had no intention of ever setting sights on either one of them. It was creepy. He wasn't going to let Brendon at them either. That was just wrong. So, so wrong.  
  
He didn't stop to reason any further as to why that whole idea bothered him on many levels.  
  
***  
  
"We've taken a hit."  
  
" _What?_ " yelled Ryan and Brendon in tandem.  
  
"We. Have. Taken. A. _Hit_ ," Pete hissed through their headsets. "I saw it."  
  
"So did I," added William. He was in the ball turret, down behind Pete. "Looks like it took out our front landing gear..."  
  
" _What?_ " they yelled again, noticeably more shrill.  
  
"Are you two fucking deaf up there, or what?" snotted Pete. Ryan ground his teeth and Brendon snarled.  
  
"Shut up, Pete," William returned. "So from what I can tell, we kind of don't have front landing gear."  
  
"Seriously?" Brendon asked, mystified.  
  
"Oh, _come on_ ," Pete whined.  
  
" _Pete_ , if you don't knock it off, I'm coming up there--" and really, it was an empty threat on William's part. He was so tall and lanky, it often took two of them to pry him out of his turret at the end of a sortie. Whoever assigned them positions really needed to do a little bit more research into who went where, honestly.  
  
"Ok, ok, play nice you two," chided Patrick. He then yelled up to the cockpit. "Have you tried engaging the landing gear?"  
  
"No," Brendon replied.  
  
"We don't usually mess with the landing gear during flight, you know," Ryan clarified.  
  
"I know," replied Patrick. "Try it anyway."  
  
They did. Lots of grinding and yelling convinced them it was a no-go. Patrick's pale, worried face poked into the cockpit. He shook his head and backed out silently. That was it. Brendon looked over to Ryan.  
  
"We can ditch," he suggested. Ryan sat motionless for a moment before slowly, jerkily shaking his head. No, no. Of course not. They would try to get the _Keltie Colleen_ back as best they could.  
  
"Bring her in on her belly," said Ryan. It made something tighten painfully inside Brendon.  
  
"That's dangerous," he pointed out. Ryan knew that; there was no need. He knew.  
  
"You can do it," Ryan said softly. Brendon whipped his head up to look Ryan in the eye. He could feel the blood draining out of his face.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You can do it," Ryan said again. "You usually bring us back in. You're the better of us at landing. If either of us is to do it, it's you. You can."  
  
"Ryan..." Brendon felt like he was backpedalling as fast as he could to get out of the situation and it did him no good. His feet were merely skidding on the ice.  
  
"Brendon," Ryan said his name with a mixture of firmness and pleading. Brendon hoped he never heard it again. He'd probably do anything Ryan asked of him. "You can do it. You can bring us in."  
  
"But if I bring her in too fast, or too hard--"  
  
"You won't," Ryan cut him off.  
  
"She could _explode_ , Ryan!" Brendon nearly shouted. Ryan blanched but pressed his lips together in a tight line.  
  
"We're not carrying ordinance now. That's a big risk gone." Ryan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked out the glass at the sea. He was obviously weighing the merits of ditching, but it was still cold in the northern waters, even if they did wait until they got to the Channel. Still too cold for them to make a serious go of it. He took another slow, deep breath before he continued. "We won't have a lot of fuel left, either."  
  
"Not a lot, no," Brendon did have to agree, if grudgingly. "Enough."  
  
"True. Enough." Ryan turned to look at Brendon then, slowly. "You can do it, Brendon. I know you can. You just have to have faith." Brendon squinted at him dubiously.  
  
"Let's not have this conversation now, after all this time."  
  
"No, Brendon. Faith in yourself."  
  
Brendon sighed and nodded.  
  
"We just need to land as straight and level as possible. Bring down our airspeed as much as we can without losing control. We should make it."  
  
"I'll tell them," Ryan said, smiling faintly. "Someone will need to pry Beckett out of his aquarium."  
  
Brendon laughed, in spite of his nerves. Perhaps because of them. He really never could tell.  
  
***  
  
They had plenty of time to plan how it would go. Plenty of time to worry about it, too. It was going to happen, and it was going to happen fast. They wouldn't have radio contact with the tower for very long before they actually got to the airfield, though. At least those guys wouldn't have hours and hours to freak out over them. Actually, that was how it usually went. Everyone on the ground worried from the moment they took off until the moment their gear touched ground again. There just usually wasn't quite so much drama there at the end.  
  
They were lucky, in some ways. The weather was clear. Bright and sunny. So very unlike the day they lost the _Bunny Marie_. At least they had that going for them. And it was calm. There was no dangerous crosswind, or a tailwind to push them harder into the ground. Brendon had actually been kind of hoping for a headwind to help slow them down a little. But he would take calm. Calm was good too.  
  
Patrick rounded up the crew and got them all to stay in the relative safety behind the bulkheads between the cockpit and the rest of the cabin. They had to drop the ball turret. It stuck out too far to allow for a smooth landing. It was possible that they were going to lose their other lower turrets; Pete's, maybe Carden's back in the tail. It depended how hard they went down, and if they had any sort of angle, or pitch in that last minute of descent.  
  
There was a chill in the air, but Brendon started to sweat. Ryan noticed when it started to bead up on his temples and slide down the side of his face and neck. Brendon tended to be a sweaty guy under normal circumstances, but on the plane, where it was cool or downright frigid for the most part, it wasn't an issue. It made Ryan sit up and take note.  
  
"It'll be ok," Ryan said softly. Brendon startled, whipping his head around to gape at Ryan. His hands were shaking, and it spread to the rest of his body when Ryan reached across to place a firm, dry hand atop one of Brendon's clammy ones, squeezing. He didn't speak again until Brendon had worked the shakes out of his system. "You ready? We're just about in radio range for the tower."  
  
Brendon nodded and stretched, raising his arms high above his head. His fingers were woven together, and his back was straight, much like how he would prepare before settling in to a long and complex piece at the piano in his mother's parlor. Ryan had seen that often enough that the difference struck him. Before, Brendon would spend hours in his mother's parlor, sitting ramrod straight at her piano. If his parents weren't at home, Ryan and Spencer would lounge about, listening, then get him to veer off the Bach and play popular tunes for them. He was amazing. _Now_... Now they were at the controls of a tin can on a collision course with the grass at High Wycombe.  
  
"I'm sorry," Ryan whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the engines. Brendon looked at him again, one eyebrow raised questioningly.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For dragging you here. For getting you in this situation," Ryan answered baldly. Brendon cocked his head.  
  
"You didn't--" Brendon closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "I signed up willingly, Ryan. I knew what could happen."  
  
"Yes, but--but it was my idea. You--you and Spence, you were too young; you would never have--" Brendon held up a hand, cutting him off.  
  
"No. We're not laying this out now. We have a plane to land. You can unburden your soul later, when we're on the ground."  
  
Then their radio crackled to life. _Keltie Colleen, this is High Wycombe Tower. Do you copy?_

 

[Part Three](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12169.html#cutid1)


	3. My Wings Have No Feathers, Part 3/3: caras_fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.

**My Wings Have No Feathers**

**Band(s):** PATD, FOB, MCR, AAR, THS, DC, TAI, CS, PP  
 **Pairing(s):** Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon, (pre-foursome)  
 **Word Count:** 22,592  
 **Rating/Warnings:** NC-17, sex, language, secondary character deaths, War (DEATH! LOTS OF IT! I MEAN IT!)

**Summary:** It's World War II, and our boys from Vegas find themselves on opposite sides of the world. Ryan and Brendon fly a B-17 bomber in Europe. Spencer pilots a fighter jet in the Pacific. We meet Jon, Spencer's wingman. Ryan and Brendon bond/get very lonely. We blow a lot of shit up.  
  
There's angst! There's sex! There's death and destruction! Hell, it's War.  
  
And then they go home. (There's angst. There's sex. There's ~~death and destruction~~ more angst.) They learn how to be people again, and in the process, find each other.  
  
Come on, who can resist a man in uniform?

 

 

**Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content**

[**Fanart:**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12314.html) by [](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/profile)[**maybe_a_sunday**](http://maybe-a-sunday.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Fanmix:** ](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=NBZ8P5W6) by [](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/profile)[**onigaminanashi**](http://onigaminanashi.livejournal.com/)  
[ **Inspiration. Making "My Wings Have No Feathers"**](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/12711.html#cutid1)

  
[Part One](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/11592.html#cutid1)   
[Part Two](http://caras-fic.livejournal.com/11913.html#cutid1)

** **

The _Keltie Colleen_ hit the runway at 70 mph, only just a shade slower than a regular landing. Brendon couldn't really bring her down much slower than that and expect to maintain flight control. They seemed to skid forever; sliding along almost all the way to the tree line at the edge of the base before coming to a stop. They could hear the emergency crews racing toward them.  
  
Ryan and Brendon looked at each other in the cockpit. They were both shaky, hearts racing. Ryan was pale as a ghost, and Brendon was fairly dripping with sweat. They just sat there, looking at each other; silently checking for something wrong. Until Ryan's lips twitched and Brendon broke out a blinding, toothsome smile.  
  
"You two ok?" Patrick's head popped in, swiveling from side to side anxiously. Brendon and Ryan both swiveled in their seats.  
  
"Sure," Brendon said. Ryan nodded in agreement. Patrick thumped the panel next to his head, satisfied, and turned on his heel. They had to get out.  
  
"You did it," Ryan said.  
  
"Guess so." Brendon ducked his head, scratching absently at the back of his neck. There may or may not have been a faint blush to his cheeks. But then it may have just been a flush. He focused on unbuckling his restraints. "Come on. We have to report."  
  
***  
  
The _Keltie Colleen_ was pretty much trashed. It was a good thing it had been their last sortie, because she wasn't flying again. Brendon and Ryan had to stand in front of their commanding officer and report. Explain what had happened, and why. Their decisions. They had destroyed a critical piece of U.S. military property. They had some explaining to do.  
  
Really, it wasn't as bad as all that. Standard operating procedure. Still. _Nerve wracking._ At least noone had been hurt. Brendon was relieved.  
  
They were free to return to their quarters about two hours after they landed. Well, about two hours after they had touched ground. Brendon was still wound tight as a drum, and Ryan... Ryan was just-- Ryan seemed completely unfazed. It was surreal. Brendon couldn't figure it out. He said as much when they got back to their barracks.  
  
"I can't figure it out."  
  
"What?" Ryan turned wide eyes on him.  
  
"You," Brendon gestured broadly. "You're so-- I don't know. Nonplussed."  
  
" _Nonplussed?_ " Ryan chuckled.  
  
"Well, _yeah!_ Ryan, hell, we almost lost it back there!" Brendon's voice rose alarmingly and he cut himself off before he started to shout. Ryan just looked at him curiously while he paced around the room. "We almost didn't make it back today, and you're acting like it never happened."  
  
"How am I supposed to be acting, Brendon?" Ryan asked softly.  
  
"How are you supposed-- Ryan, we could have _died_ today!" Brendon clamped his jaw shut. He knew he was shouting, and that everyone on the corridor could probably hear. Ryan simply continued gazing calmly at him.  
  
"I know. I know, Brendon," Ryan said after a moment. He reached out, snagging Brendon's arm as he passed, stilling him. Brendon's head snapped up and he met Ryan's eyes, crackling with energy. Ryan was usually so careful to not touch Brendon. And it had been something Brendon was used to, even when they had been home, before the war. Ryan did not bestow physical affection. Brendon knew it was because the people he loved, the people who were supposed to love him, had used their touches to be hurtful. It broke Brendon's heart. But when Ryan's hand connected with Brendon's skin, he couldn't stop it. He turned and pulled Ryan to him in a crushing hug. Ryan barely moved, merely adjusted his stance so he didn't fall, but when Brendon tucked his nose into his collar, pressed his forehead against Ryan's neck, he could feel the pounding of his heart. He could feel when Ryan breathed out his name.  
  
Brendon shuddered.  
  
A full-on, whole body shudder. And he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He was fucked; that's all there is to it. He knew that his body tended to react to Ryan in ways he couldn't control, but he had always figured he'd be safe from discovery, what with Ryan's strict hands-off policy.  
  
Ryan drew in a careful breath. Even so, Brendon felt it, and it did nothing to calm him. Brendon was practically vibrating with the tension left over from their flight. Their _crash_. Somehow he had managed to bring them all back safely, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he could have lost Ryan today. _Lost_ him--before he even had a chance.  
  
Brendon's body seemed to be moving on its own accord. His hands released Ryan's shoulders only to travel to his face. Brendon touched gently; Ryan's cheek, his temple, his mouth. His _mouth_. Ryan's mouth, which had occupied Brendon's thoughts for months, if not years, if he was being honest with himself. Brendon's fingers slid across Ryan's generous mouth, exploring. The strangest thing, though, was that Ryan was _letting_ him.  
  
Brendon's eyes flew up to meet Ryan's. Ryan's eyes were wide, but he met Brendon's gaze easily enough. They stood and looked at one another for a long moment, Brendon's hands on Ryan's face. Brendon was sure he wasn't breathing, but he didn't really care. And that was it. Brendon was done.  
  
"Fuck it," Brendon mumbled, and before he could even register the look of mild shock on Ryan's face, he crashed their lips together. Brendon moved his mouth against Ryan's feverishly, but he noticed, even in the back of his mind where it still seemed to be registering information, that he hadn't had to wait for Ryan, to coax him into a response. _Ryan kissed back_ , and it made Brendon's knees buckle.  
  
They broke apart hastily, and Brendon stepped back, reaching for the door. Ryan watched as he twisted the lock home. Brendon moved swiftly as he advanced on Ryan once more. He tugged at Ryan's collar, almost a warning before he drew down the long zipper on his flight suit. Ryan shrugged it off, and it fell to the floor at his feet, leaving him clad only in faded boxers. Brendon pressed, and Ryan stepped back, the rest of the way out of his flight suit and closer to his narrow bed.  
  
Ryan's eyes were bright as he sank down onto his blanket. He reached for Brendon and dragged him down with him. Ryan made quick work of Brendon's flight suit as well, and it hung off his hips, abandoned, as Brendon knelt next to him. Brendon didn't bother to kick his flight suit the rest of the way off; he ignored it, instead focusing on stretching out atop Ryan.  
  
So many people treated Ryan like he was fragile. Brendon didn't. Brendon never did. Brendon knew what Ryan was capable of. He knew what Ryan could handle. It was more than most people gave him credit for. So Brendon knew that Ryan wasn't going to break when he pressed himself against him. If anything, Brendon was afraid that it was going to be him that crumbled.  
  
Ryan's hands were warm. It surprised Brendon, when Ryan reached for him, because he was usually so cold. _Usually_ , as if Brendon had such a bank of experience to draw upon. The half dozen times Brendon could remember Ryan's hands on him--and he did--they had been chilly. Either way, Ryan's hands tended to be the focal point of a lot of Brendon's daydreams. His fantasies, really. Brendon's breath stopped when Ryan pulled him down for a kiss. A million points of contact seemed to short out his brain. He couldn't think anything other than a never-ending loop of _Ryan Ryan Ryan_.  
  
Even that stopped when Ryan's hips rolled underneath him.  
  
Both of them froze. Just for a moment, Brendon and Ryan looked at one another. Ryan's eyes were wide and searching, and while Brendon saw a touch of fear there, he watched as it faded and turned into something else. Whatever it was, that something else was good enough. Brendon dove down and captured Ryan again. He sucked Ryan's lower lip into his mouth, earning him a vicious ass grab as Ryan dug his fingers into his flesh. It drove them together again, making Brendon gasp and writhe. He could feel Ryan, hard and straining against him, and even though Brendon knew that Ryan was no blushing virgin, it was something of a shock to realize that it was because of him.  
  
Brendon saw how the handful of nurses looked at Ryan. Brendon saw how Ryan looked back. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Ryan had had nearly every single one of them over the years of their deployment. What was beyond Brendon was the _why_. It was clear how Ryan reacted to Brendon's touch.  
  
Brendon needed to get out of his head.  
  
Ryan's back arched and his fingers skittered across Brendon's skin when he licked up the long column of Ryan's throat. Brendon mouthed his jaw wetly, moving back to nip at his ear. Ryan shivered, and Brendon flirted briefly with spilling every wicked thought he'd ever had about Ryan into his ear. But he kept his mouth on Ryan's skin and his words to himself.  
  
***  
  
They were both sweaty and sticky when Brendon came back to himself enough for it to sink in what they had done. Both of them were still panting, yet while Brendon's breaths slowly became deeper and more regular-- _calm, calm_ , he told himself; Ryan never seemed to come down. Brendon had slumped to the side after he came, and he still had an arm slung lazily, affectionately, across Ryan's middle. Ryan sat up with a start, reaching for pants.  
  
"Where's the fire?" Brendon drawled. Ryan just continued messing with his pants.  
  
"I have to go," he said after a minute of rustling and tugging. Brendon pressed himself up against the wall.  
  
"Ryan--" Ryan turned, avoiding Brendon's eyes, and shook his head just the slightest bit. Then he carefully unlocked the door and walked out, closing the door softly behind himself and leaving without another word.  
  
***  
  
 _October 1945_  
  
Most of August on the Yorktown had been spent steaming around Japan, waiting, while peace negotiations were underway. It was boring. They weren't supposed to get into any trouble, just make sure nobody else did either. It got very boring. It didn't get much better when they began providing air cover for the forces occupying Japan. At least they were busy and bored, not just sitting around tormenting each other.  
  
The war had officially ended in September. After the formal surrender, Jon and Spencer were part of the crew doing air-drops of supplies to Allied prisoners of war who were still living in their prison camps. It was simple. It was straight-forward. And it wasn't dangerous--not any more dangerous than flying their stupid helldivers ever was. It was fantastic. They loved it. They just got to fly. And throw shit out their canopies.  
  
Spencer had told Ryan in a letter that he was getting discharged in October (end of war or no), and that he would be getting off the ship when she moored at Alameda. He was excited--hell, they were _all_ excited. He was finally getting to go home. Getting the hell off the ship. He completely intended never to even _see_ water again, if he could help it. The desert was definitely the way to do it. Spencer was going home and it was perfect. Jon was going with him.  
  
It took them a few days to ensure their paperwork was in order. The military referred to it as "outprocessing", and they weren't kidding. It was a process, all right. Unfortunately, it was nothing out of the ordinary. It always took a few days to make sure they had all the signatures they needed, and that everything ended up on the right desk. It was infuriatingly slow, but that's the way it worked. Spencer hoped to be home for Halloween. It looked like they would make it, even if the bus took about 500 times longer than any other form of transportation known to man. Both of them were struck with an intense longing for their planes when told exactly how long it was going to take to get to Vegas. And they hated those damn planes.  
  
While Spencer and Jon spent the days running around getting their discharge papers signed by seemingly everyone who was higher ranking than they were, they also used their time to say their goodbyes. There was only a handful of guys who were at the end of their tour, like Spencer and Jon were. Everyone else still had time to serve, even though the war was over.  
  
Faller was one of those. He suddenly became surly and unsociable, avoiding Spencer and Jon like the plague, where usually he was dogging their steps. It was a little weird. But then, so was Faller. Spencer just kind of shrugged him off. If that's the way he wanted to be, well then.  
  
It hurt to say goodbye to Carrabba. Jon had come to practically love his gunner. Even Spencer had gained a sort of grudging appreciation for him. He and Jon had made an excellent team. They had asked him. Asked what his plans were for after the war, and told him that if he wanted, Carrabba was more than welcome to join them in Vegas.  
  
But Carrabba had refused.  
  
He had a wife, and a family back in Florida. She would want him home. In their excitement, they had forgotten. Not everyone was just starting, young, like they were. Some of them, Carrabba included, had been settled. They had to get back.  
  
When Carrabba walked away from them on the dock, it was like the end, for real. He didn't even turn around to look back. Carrabba simply passed into the fog, and they never saw him again.  
  
***  
  
It took Jon and Spencer two days to get to Vegas from San Francisco. It was excruciatingly slow. Spencer was twitchy and was practically ready to knock out the driver and do it himself. Jon just sat back and watched him. Flying kind of ruined you for speed.  
  
They spent the night in Bakersfield, half way there. They were travelling, and happened to stay at a place frequented by travellers. As one does. Like in Bremerton, noone thought twice about Spencer and Jon being together. It was nice. All they wanted to do was sleep, anyway.  
  
All _Jon_ wanted to do was sleep. Spencer wouldn't shut up.  
  
"I can't wait for you to meet them!" Spencer practically gushed. Jon just laughed at him. Spencer was bouncing. _Bouncing._  
  
"Who? Your friends or your mother?"  
  
"What is it with you and my mother?"  
  
"I'm sure she's a lovely woman," Jon replied with a grin.  
  
"Hell _yeah_ , she is! And you are _never_ going to meet her. She'll see right through you," Spencer said fondly. "Either that or try to set you up with one of my sisters." Jon blanched, which sent Spencer into peals of giggles. "Don't worry," he gasped. "She does that with everyone."  
  
"I hope she won't be offended that I don't want to court one of your sisters," Jon said cautiously. Spencer smiled as he tugged Jon into bed.  
  
"No, no. They have plenty of men panting after them, apparently. They're gorgeous."  
  
"Maybe I _do_ want to court one of your sisters..."  
  
***  
  
It was early in the evening of October 25 when Spencer returned to Las Vegas. He had been away for more than six years, and a lot had changed. Las Vegas was a boom town. Hotels and casinos sprung up like mushrooms in the city center. People came from all over for the excitement. _Lights! Gambling! Whores! The Hoover Dam!_ For some reason, a great many of them stayed.  
  
That included the Army Air Force. Nellis Air Force Base had been completed in 1941, and Vegas was now home to the Army Air Force Training Command, 82d Flying Training Wing. But not for long, oddly enough. The unit had only been there for two years, but it was already scheduled to move on by that next summer. In the meantime, however, there were B-17s and B-29s aplenty soaking up the sun. And the Civilian Aeronautical Board watching over them, and everyone else too. It was a strange relationship.  
  
Spencer was torn. If he was being completely serious with himself, the first place he should go would be to his parents' house. But he had only been half joking when he told Jon that he didn't want his mother to meet him. Spencer was sure-- _sure_ \--that his mother would know about them somehow. He just wasn't ready. Didn't know if he would ever be. _It just wasn't done._ But he was. And he had no intentions of stopping.  
  
The other place they could go was to Ryan's.  
  
Ryan would understand. Ryan would love Jon! And most importantly, Ryan could keep Jon while Spencer went to his mother's. It sounded like a plan.  
  
To Ryan's they went.  
  
Ryan still lived in his father's house. _Still._ That made it sound as if he was 35, unemployed, and living in the basement. He wasn't, of course. Ryan had only been back from England since April, and was still working up the initiative to sell the house. Considering that it wasn't a place of happy memories, Spencer was surprised that it had taken this long. Ryan most certainly hadn't shed any tears over his father's death.  
  
Spencer and Jon walked up to Ryan's front door and just kind of stood there. Jon had no intention of knocking. Ryan wasn't his friend, and it wasn't his place. Spencer seemed to be steeling himself, and just raised his arm to bang on the door when it flew open and a body flew out with a yelp and wrapped itself around Spencer.  
  
And this was how Jon met Ryan.  
  
They were laughing and hugging, and laughing some more when Ryan finally turned his head and noticed Jon on the stoop. He carefully peeled himself away from Spencer and stood ramrod straight. If Jon hadn't before, he would have known it was Ryan just from that. Something in the way Spencer had described him; he was cautious, and appraising, and utterly devoted to Spencer. Jon could appreciate that. Ryan glared for a moment, before his look softened into a grin and he extended a hand.  
  
"You must be Jon," he said in a low voice.  
  
"I am," Jon replied with a nod, reaching out to shake Ryan's hand vigorously. Ryan's grip was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny guy, and Jon found himself blushing inexplicably. Ryan looked to Spencer, who shrugged and threw an arm around each of their shoulders, herding them inside.  
  
"Where's Brendon?" asked Spencer, looking around. "I figured he'd be here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Uh, because he's my friend too, and I'd like to see him," Spencer responded.  
  
"I had six years of Brendon; every day. Now I want you," Ryan said. Jon looked at him closely.  
  
"You are still friends with, him, aren't you?" Jon asked with some concern. Ryan visibly backpedalled.  
  
"Of course! I just--" Ryan paused, sighing. "Brendon is at his place, I guess? I told him when you'd be coming home."  
  
"Well, do you have a telephone? Let's ring him, and--" Spencer was interrupted by the sound of someone pounding on the door.  
  
" _Smith!_ " could be heard clearly through the thick wood. All three of them grinned. Ryan shoved Spencer toward the door, shaking his head. Spencer went, opening the door to a whirlwind. A tiny little guy launched himself at Spencer, much as Ryan had done, only in this case, his feet actually left the ground. Brendon--for who else could it be--wrapped arms and legs around Spencer, squeezing him until he grunted, and all the while warbling joyfully "Spencer Smith! Spencer Smith! Spencer _Smith!_ " Spencer laughed and whirled him around.  
  
Jon smiled, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Ryan did the same. _Good_.  
  
"Brendon, Brendon," Spencer gasped. "You weigh a ton." Brendon chuckled throatily and put his feet down. He did not release Spencer from his grasp, though. He clung. Jon felt the barest edge of jealousy creeping up. Brendon was _gorgeous_ , and he hung on Spencer like he was his life-line. Jon took a deep breath, waiting for the feeling to go away. He barely caught snippets of Spencer and Brendon's interaction. He did, however, catch Ryan watching him.  
  
Ryan didn't even twitch.  
  
"Brendon, you have to meet Jon!" Spencer cried suddenly. Jon and Ryan both jumped. Jon looked back to Spencer to see Brendon slowly detaching himself. He turned to Jon, his gaze coasting over Ryan in between.  
  
"Jon," he said in a voice that sent chills down Jon's spine. Brendon took three steps toward him, and rather than offering a handshake as Ryan had done, Brendon enveloped Jon in an embrace, warm and welcoming. He pulled back a little and smiled. "Welcome to Las Vegas, Jon. Welcome home."  
  
Jon was charmed.  
  
***  
  
Once the pleasantries were over, Spencer explained hastily his need to go to his mother's. Brendon bobbed his head, eager to be of assistance. Ryan was a little less clear.  
  
"Why is this an issue?" Ryan wondered. Jon cringed inwardly.  
  
"We can stay with you for a while, right?" Spencer asked in return. Ryan's forehead crinkled.  
  
"Well, yes. I have plenty of room. But I don't understand..." Ryan looked around at each of them in turn, Brendon included.  
  
"Can you just do this for me now?"  
  
"Of course. Your mother will be wanting you," Ryan added softly. Spencer hugged him quickly before practically running out the door. Jon sat, uninvited, and had a moment of guilt over his rudeness before Brendon came to sit beside him.  
  
"The Smiths live down the block," Brendon said, offering some sort of explanation for Spencer's behavior. Jon nodded. "This is Ryan's dad's place, you know. I live closer to downtown." Jon nodded again when Brendon paused. "What are you guys planning to do?"  
  
"I don't know for sure," Jon replied. Brendon's grin brightened his whole face.  
  
"You should come work with us! We're swamped! And you're perfect! You and Spence. For the job."  
  
"Nice, Brendon," Ryan mumbled from his perch on the far end of the sofa. Brendon threw him a glare.  
  
"You _are_. Never mind him. We're flight instructors with the Civilian Aeronautical Board, and we totally have more students than the two of us can handle. You should do it! And you could get an apartment closer to the airfield, and it would be awesome!" Jon laughed at Brendon's enthusiasm. "That's not all. We fly in an airshow too."  
  
"Really?" Jon's interest was piqued.  
  
"Yeah! We do warbird demos. I fly the B-17. Like, you know, we did." Brendon assumed correctly that Spencer had told him all about them. "Ryan flies the B-29. Thing is a beast." Ryan snorted, and Jon and Brendon both laughed at him. "There are never enough pilots. I'm sure there's something you and Spence could do there too, if you wanted."  
  
"Sounds cool."  
  
"Totally," Brendon agreed.  
  
Spencer was gone all evening. It made Jon a little antsy at first, left alone with his friends. Jon knew all about them. Spencer talked incessantly about how Ryan did this, and Brendon did that. And he read all their letters. Jon just didn't know what had gone into letters Spencer wrote himself. It didn't stop Brendon and Ryan from telling him stories about the three of them growing up together. And it didn't stop Jon from telling them all about Spencer as a pilot, and all the things they had done, the places they'd been. Brendon and Ryan were practically green with envy, having been stationed in just the one place; only seeing Europe from 25,000 feet. Jon watched them exchanging looks, and wondered.  
  
Ryan guided Jon to a guest room late in the night. Spencer was still out, and it caused a sharp stab of anxiety. But it was very late, and even Brendon was nodding, so Ryan offered him the sofa and a blanket, and took Jon upstairs. Ryan led Jon down a hall, pointing out rooms as they passed: guest room, Ryan's room, and Ryan's father, George's room, at the end. That's where Jon was to stay. Jon figured he should be flattered, being offered the biggest room, but he had to suppress a shudder. He knew all about George too.  
  
Ryan offered a pat on the shoulder before turning away to find his own room. Jon thanked him for his hospitality, and Ryan shrugged.  
  
"Spencer really likes you," he said. "It's the least I could do."  
  
***  
  
Jon felt as if he had just fallen asleep when he was awakened by Spencer crawling into bed with him.  
  
"Hi," Spencer whispered, nuzzling his jaw.  
  
"What are you doing?" Jon hissed.  
  
"Coming to bed," Spencer replied, easy as anything.  
  
"What about Ryan and Brendon?"  
  
"What about them?" Spencer yawned.  
  
"Do they know?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh. I don't know. No, I don't think so," Spencer said, tired, and pressing his fingers against Jon's collarbone.  
  
"Don't you think they're going to figure it out when they find you in bed with me?" Jon whispered frantically. Spencer snorted against Jon's shoulder, softly, just a whoosh of air.  
  
"Why would they do that?"  
  
"When you're not in your own bed in the morning!" Jon clenched his teeth.  
  
"Hmm? Oh." Spencer just snuggled down deeper into the bed. Jon poked him.  
  
" _Spencer!_ "  
  
"Oh for Christ's sake, Jon; they're my best friends. It'll be fine. They love me; they'll love you. Go to sleep."  
  
Jon really wasn't so sure about any of that.  
  
***  
  
Brendon woke with the sun. He tended to be a light sleeper, when he slept at all. He contrasted that with Ryan. Ryan was a poor sleeper as well, but when he did sleep, he slept like the dead. Brendon thought wistfully of all the nights he and Ryan spent awake, together, discussing whatever came to mind. As often as not it was Spencer. They reminisced about growing up in Vegas. They read each other letters. Spencer had always written to the both of them in the same letter, addressing it to one or the other, alternately. They made plans, for after the War. Brendon had always found it comforting, like the three of them were back home.  
  
Brendon had been doing his level best to be a friend to Ryan again. He knew it could have turned out much worse. It had broken Brendon's heart when Ryan left, after. _After._ Really, Brendon should have seen it coming. Ryan would never--not really. Brendon should have _known_. As much as he loved Ryan, it would have been for the best if he had just left it alone.  
  
Ryan didn't speak to him for nearly two weeks. It was the longest two weeks of Brendon's life. At first they had been preparing to leave England, to return to the States. They had been busy, so Brendon could understand the silence, even if he knew that Ryan was really just avoiding him the only way he could. But when they got home... That had been absolute torture. Ryan disappeared into his father's house, and Brendon. Brendon had nowhere to go.  
  
Brendon had gone to a hotel, and in short order had found himself a small apartment. It was near the new Air Base, and the sounds of the planes felt like home. He found work there too. It wasn't long before Brendon had a new routine. He wasn't happy about it, but there it was.  
  
Ryan just showed up on his doorstep one evening. Brendon opened his door and found him standing there looking sheepish.  
  
"I followed you home," Ryan had said. Brendon was incredulous.  
  
" _Why would you do that?_ " he asked sharply. Ryan ducked his head.  
  
"I needed to talk to you," Ryan replied. Brendon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door jamb.  
  
"Well then, go ahead."  
  
"I--I can't--I--" Ryan sputtered, flailing his hands a little and looking around wildly as if he suspected that he himself had been followed.  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ."  
  
" _Brendon_."  
  
"Are you coming in, or not?" Brendon angled his body enough so Ryan could pass through if he wanted. He did. Brendon closed the door behind him and let Ryan settle himself, taking his time.  
  
"I'm sorry," Ryan said bluntly. "I was--I couldn't--" He paused, raking a hand through his hair. Still short. "I shouldn't have treated you the way I did. I shouldn't have--" Ryan paused again, looking away and sighing deeply. "We made it all the way through the War, Brendon; you can't leave me now."  
  
"I'm sorry; _I_ can't leave _you?_ Are you kidding me?"  
  
"I'm all alone here, Brendon. I need you to be my friend. _Please_ ," Ryan begged. He had looked really sincere.  
  
"I don't know," Brendon said. He turned away, hugging his arms closely to his chest. Ryan stepped up to him.  
  
"Brendon, please. Can't we just be friends again? Like before? Who else do we have? Spencer is still in the Pacific--"  
  
"Is that what this is? Since you can't have Spencer, you'll take me?" Brendon snapped.  
  
" _No!_ That's not it at all! I lo--" Brendon cut him off.  
  
"Don't, Ryan." Brendon regained the space he had lost. He was quiet for a long while. "Give me some time, ok?"  
  
Ryan nodded jerkily and made his way for the door. The only sound as he left was the soft click of the latch.  
  
It turned out that following Brendon around wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. Ryan worked at the Air Base too, for the CAB. They didn't see each other often, due to their schedules, but it happened. And then they both ended up at the other end of the field checking out the air show too. Brendon couldn't seem to get away from Ryan if he tried.  
  
So he tried to become Ryan's friend again, and it seemed to be working. He pushed away any thoughts of Ryan that were anything other than strictly platonic. It was hard. Ryan was at turns delicately lovely and warmly masculine, and Brendon ached to touch him. Brendon spent a lot of unexplained time biting hard on the tips of his fingers. But it had been six months. If this was the way Brendon got to have Ryan, then that was the way it was going to be.  
  
Brendon startled when Ryan's face appeared over the top of the sofa. Ryan just grinned, until Brendon smacked him with a throw pillow.  
  
"You have to work today?" Ryan asked. Brendon shook his head.  
  
"Not until later," he replied.  
  
"Me too. Eat?"  
  
"Sure. Want to wake up Spence and Jon?" Ryan thumped the back of the sofa and stood up straight, stretching.  
  
"I'll go get Spencer. You want to wake Jon? You two seemed to get on pretty well last night," Ryan suggested.  
  
"You're just hogging Spencer," Brendon whined, rolling to his feet. Ryan flashed him another grin before he turned to head up the stairs. Brendon followed close behind.  
  
Ryan suddenly flattened himself against the wall.  
  
" _Was that a lizard?_ " he squawked.  
  
"In the house? You don't have anything they want to eat in here. I'm beginning to wonder if you have anything _I_ want to eat in here, if you've got lizards..." Brendon teased as he pushed by. He looked back at Ryan with a smirk before he rapped lightly on Jon's door. " _Jon!_ " Brendon whispered loudly. He tried the door, and it was unlocked, so he cautiously poked his head in.  
  
And immediately whipped it back out again and popped the door closed.  
  
Ryan was just clearing the top steps. He looked at Brendon and cocked his head.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing." Brendon headed down the hall purposefully. "Let's just eat. It's still early. Come on, I'll even cook for you." Ryan frowned and reached for the guest room door. Brendon rested a hand on his arm to still him. "Come on," he said again. Ryan ignored him and opened the door anyway. The room was empty and had not been slept in. Ryan's eyes flew to Brendon's, flashing darkly. "Let's just go downstairs, Ryan."  
  
"Brendon, is Spencer--"  
  
"Here," came his voice, still gravelly from sleep. Spencer stood in the open doorway at the end of the hall. The door to Jon's room. Ryan took one look at him and slammed the guest room door before thumping down the stairs. Spencer sighed, loud enough for Brendon to hear at the other end of the hallway. "Oh fuck."  
  
"Yeah," Brendon agreed.  
  
***  
  
Ryan was banging around in the kitchen when Brendon came downstairs. Brendon didn't know if he should try to say anything, or just hang back and make sure Ryan didn't burn his house down.  
  
"Did you know about this?" Ryan said, suddenly still, yet brandishing a frying pan. Brendon blanched.  
  
"No," he said simply.  
  
"Really? Because it would explain an awful lot if you did."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"You, Brendon. You always looked to Spencer as a model of how to be. As went Spencer, so did Brendon," said Ryan.  
  
"That's not fair, Ryan."  
  
"It's not _right_ , Brendon!" Ryan yelled and slammed his frying pan on the counter, making Brendon jump. "You can't just--"  
  
"You can do anything you want," Brendon replied icily. "Love is love; you can't control it."  
  
"Sure you can!"  
  
"Is that what you've been telling yourself, Ryan? Because I was there too; I saw--"  
  
"No," Ryan put up a hand between them.  
  
"Who is this about, Ryan, really? Is it about Spencer and Jon? Or is it about you and me?" Ryan just glared. Brendon just returned his glare for a moment, until something clicked. "Oh my God. You're _jealous_."  
  
"I am not."  
  
"But you are," Brendon was shocked. "It all makes sense now. You never wanted--" Brendon had to stop or he was going to dig himself into a hole he wouldn't be able to climb out of. A small sound caught his attention, and it was Spencer in the doorway.  
  
"I should go," Spencer said, heaving his bag to his shoulder. Brendon could just see Jon at the base of the stairs, unobtrusive.  
  
"You can come with me; I was just leaving too," Brendon offered. Ryan just stood there, mouth agape, in the middle of his kitchen.  
  
***  
  
"What exactly happened back there?" Spencer asked, once they were settled in at Brendon's.  
  
"What did you hear?"  
  
"Not enough." Spencer stopped and looked intently at Brendon, then Jon, then down at his own hands in his lap. "What's Ryan's problem?"  
  
Brendon sighed. The three of them sat on the sofa in his little apartment. Spencer in the middle, a discreet distance from Jon on one side, half smothered by Brendon on the other.  
  
"Did Ryan tell you what happened in England?" Brendon asked cautiously, intentionally vague.  
  
"I don't think there's anything he could have told me that would have had him all..."  
  
"We had sex," Brendon stated flatly.  
  
" _You did what?_ " Spencer yelped. Jon sat up and looked at Brendon around Spencer, his jaw hanging open.  
  
"Yeah," Brendon sighed sadly.  
  
"So," Spencer really didn't know what to say. "This was a bad thing, I take it?"  
  
"Yes. No. Yes? Definitely yes. He's pretending it never happened."  
  
"I can imagine," Spencer replied. Brendon glanced up and saw Spencer's look turn steely. Wheels started turning in his head.  
  
"I was right, wasn't I," Brendon said slowly, carefully. Spencer squinted back at him. "About Ryan. About you."  
  
"No!" Spencer stood abruptly. "Ryan is my best friend, Brendon!"  
  
"And he loves you." It was Jon. Both of them had practically forgotten that he was there. He looked up at Spencer from his place on the couch. "I could tell, last night." Then his eyes swung to Brendon, and it made him squirm. "And Brendon loves you." Brendon opened his mouth to add, to protest, but Jon continued. "And I love you. You just have to decide what you want. Where you stand."  
  
Brendon found himself charmed by Jon. He so obviously loved Spencer; even if he hadn't said it, Brendon would have known. But then, Spencer was easy to love. Jon had been right: Ryan and Brendon both loved him dearly. That was exactly it, though. Where did they stand?  
  
" _Jon_ ," Spencer breathed, exasperated; he reached for his hand, holding it tightly. "Ryan is my _friend_. Brendon is my _friend_." Brendon felt himself deflating somehow. "I thought--" and he broke off, laughing nervously. "I thought they would love _you_."  
  
"You're not handing me off to Brendon and Ryan," Jon said with some force. Spencer shook his head.  
  
"No, of course not," Spencer smiled down at Jon and Brendon's gut clenched. "But Ryan, Ryan always loves who I love," and he turned that smile on Brendon, who had both a horrible sinking feeling and a furious blush. He felt like his body was tearing him apart. "And you reminded me of Brendon."  
  
It was Spencer's turn to blush. He let Jon tug him back down onto the sofa, where he cuddled down, dragging Brendon closer. They fell into silence for a long while.  
  
"I missed you, Spence," Brendon said softly. Spencer tucked some hair behind Brendon's ear; it was just long enough now.  
  
"I missed you, too."  
  
"Ryan can be tough to take all by himself," Brendon sighed. Spencer huffed out silent laughter before smoothing down Brendon's hair yet again.  
  
"Now you don't have to."  
  
"What are you saying, Spence?" Brendon rolled and propped himself up with a hand against Spencer's chest.  
  
"We're in this together, you and I." Spencer smiled, but Brendon could see Jon's knuckles whitening where his hand rested on Spencer's arm. "And now Jon." Spencer pried Jon's fingers off him and interlaced them with his own, reassuringly. "The three of us, with Ryan, if he wants."  
  
Brendon's face fell.  
  
"But he doesn't, Spence," he said, voice cracking. "He won't."  
  
"Do you know why Ryan chased down every nurse in England?" Spencer asked.  
  
"How do you--what does that-- _what the hell?_ " Brendon sputtered.  
  
"He told me," Spencer said simply. "I got a lot more letters from Ryan over the years than I did from you. Did you know that? He wrote to me at least once a week. Often more. He told me a lot of things, sometimes things he didn't mean to tell." Brendon backed himself into the opposite corner of the sofa and refused to look at them. "Ryan has a problem reconciling faith and reality."  
  
"Tell me about it," Brendon mumbled. Jon snorted over Spencer's shoulder and immediately clapped his hand over his mouth.  
  
"Ryan figured that if he fell for a nurse it would make what he was feeling for you go away." Brendon's head shot up, his eyes wide. "So he tried to find what he thought he was supposed to. But you were just always there, and it didn't work. It really didn't work."  
  
"It wasn't about me," Brendon said after a moment, so low Spencer could hardly hear.  
  
" _Brendon_..."  
  
"No, Spence," Brendon glanced up and caught Jon's eye guiltily. "It wasn't me he wanted. It was you."  
  
"You didn't read his letters," Spencer argued.  
  
"He practically told me as much, Spencer! When we got home! He said that I couldn't leave him alone, because you were still in the Pacific! It was you! It was _you!_ " Brendon was getting loud, and a little frantic. His hands shook. Spencer reached out and grasped both of Brendon's hands, squeezing them gently. Brendon slumped forward and rested his head on Spencer's shoulder. Jon petted his hair reassuringly and was surprised when Brendon leaned into his touch. "I don't know what to do anymore," he said mournfully.  
  
"Well, on the bright side, you don't seem to have a problem with me and Spence," Jon said from his position behind Spencer. Brendon and Spencer both laughed, and if it sounded a little forced, nobody mentioned it. Brendon straightened again, but didn't pull away completely, leaving his hands twisted with Spencer's. He looked at Spencer and Jon in turn.  
  
"No, I don't. Love is love. I meant it, and Ryan doesn't get it." Brendon sighed deeply. "I don't know. Maybe Ryan was right."  
  
"It's not right if you're trying to deny who you are."  
  
"Ryan's been doing that every day since he was twelve years old. Just let it go, Spence," Brendon added wearily.  
  
***  
  
Brendon only had a very small apartment. It wasn’t large enough for company with extended stays, but he did the best he could to make Jon and Spencer comfortable. Ultimately, though, he was just glad to have Spencer back, and the fact that he brought Jon, _wonderful Jon_ , back with him, well that was just great too.

Brendon set up a nest of blankets and pillows for his guests in his sitting room. He had decided rather early to forego work for the day. Not the best decision, no, but it wasn’t every day that one of his best friends came home. Besides, that way the next time he went in he could take Spencer and Jon with him and see about getting them jobs as well. Today would be too early; they needed to settle in.

Brendon turned the radio on and proceeded to bounce around the apartment, happily making up words to sing along to Duke Ellington. Spencer just laughed at him, watching as he moved. Jon sang along at chorus repeats.

***

A pleasant lull had settled by the time the three of them managed to cobble together a respectable dinner from what they could find in Brendon’s cupboards. Evening was fading into night, and Brendon’s apartment cooled from a breeze off the mountains. The building was quiet, so it almost seemed as if it was just the three of them for miles around. Jon found himself suddenly shy and hung closer to Spencer.

They settled into their makeshift bed on the floor to relax and just listen to music. Spencer seemed to melt into the blankets, and it made Jon want to curl up around him. He made a move to, but hesitated, looking to Brendon, unsure. Spencer caught his arm and tugged him down anyway, sighing contentedly when Jon snuggled into his side. Jon could just feel Brendon’s presence on Spencer’s other side, and he tensed when Brendon squirmed.

“Anybody want a drink?” Brendon asked faux-brightly.

“Stay,” Spencer said, the note of command clear in his voice. He reached for Brendon as well, dragging him in, with little room for argument. Brendon slipped his arm around Spencer’s waist and made himself comfortable. Jon waited until the rapid beating of Spencer’s heart slowed, and Brendon’s breathing evened. Then he cautiously moved to cover Brendon’s hand with his own. Brendon startled, but between Spencer shrugging him tighter into his side, and Jon’s gentle squeeze, he gave in to their easy affection.

The knock on the door moments later broke the spell.

Brendon struggled to get to his feet, but the door swung open before he could reach it. Ryan stood stock still for a split second. A look flashed across his face that Jon couldn’t decipher, but it was followed by one that was clear for anyone to see. Ryan was _pissed_. Jon glanced at Spencer and Brendon, and both of them looked vaguely guilty. Jon stood, freeing Spencer to do the same. Brendon sat gaping up at them from the floor until Jon extended a hand and pulled him to his feet.

Ryan looked down pointedly at their joined hands and Spencer shot Ryan a defiant glare. Brendon tugged half-heartedly, but Jon refused to release him. When he reached for Spencer, Ryan scoffed and turned on his heel.

The sound of the door slamming behind him echoed loud in their ears.

Spencer took one step toward the door before he thought better of it, and Brendon sagged, as if he would fall if Jon didn’t support him. Jon stood firm, squeezing both their hands until Spencer, then Brendon squeezed back.

“It’ll all turn out ok; you’ll see,” Jon said.

“But—“ Brendon began.

“No. Did you see the look on his face? He just has to get over himself before he can realize what it is he needs. He wanted to be here.” Brendon’s lip trembled and Jon squeezed his hand again. “What he wants is here. You’re here. And we’re here.”

“We’ll be here as long as you need us, Brendon,” Spencer added. “We’re not going anywhere. Not now.”


End file.
